Bramble and the Pomegranate
by EmpressCirque
Summary: He is not a hero; he is not even a man. Hate and anger has bred a monster, but compassion can lead to growth. The Dark Prince finds that freedom does not come easy and life comes at a cost. There is a balance that cannot be broken - some things cannot be erased. The Sands of Time cannot be undone.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter TWs: Mentions of death, sun poisoning, general injuries._

* * *

Breathing is an entirely new sensation. The feeling of air being pulled in and pushed out of the chest, to and from the nostrils, comes so naturally that one would hardly even notice it. It is a common, insignificant experience, but one he is not accustomed to. His first breaths are filled with burning sands that rage in his throat, tearing into the flesh with what feels like a million shards of glass. The pain is like nothing he has ever felt and he feels weak. Regardless, the pain, this new sensation, is welcomed gratefully and he slips out from under the sands with clawing hands, digging into the ground and grasping for freedom.

The sun beats down onto his back, baking it under the heat and threatening to crack apart the new flesh. His body feels as if there is a vice squeezing around him, drawing his flesh against him so tightly that he fears he may collapse under the pressure.

This unimaginable torture though? This is good.

It means he is alive. Back in the land of the living, as it were, and this is an opportunity he intends to enjoy to its fullest extent. An enjoyment that can only be truly fulfilled once he is seated at his rightful place on the throne of Persia, while a certain false prince lays before him, bloodied and broken; dead, preferably.

Finally, with far more effort than one may expect, he pushes himself free from the blanket of sand that rests upon his back and shoulders. The shimmering of the sand obstructs the scenery around him for a moment – the same moment he takes to gasp for another lungful of fresh air—before once more settling itself below him. Falling forward, his palms rest flat on the ground, keeping him steady as he attempts to take in the variety of new sensations wracking his body.

Sand continues to slide down his shoulders and stick to the wetness of his skin; the feeling tickles him and his sides quake as the coarse powder runs across him. He stirs again and below him his hands and knees feel the pinpricks of pain as the small rocks cut into his flesh. After a moment, he notices how dry his throat is, how hard it is to take each new breath, and how much the pain is growing by the second.

He wonders if this is what it feels like to die.

He tries to think back to the sensations he had only known for fleeting moments in a time that seemed to have taken place millennia ago, sensations that had not been ones for him to experience, but those he had felt the ghosts of when his royal host had been careless. From what little he knows of these fragile forms, those feelings had been nothing like those that he felt now.

He refuses to return to the darkness. He refuses to know death again.

As he pushes himself up and onto his legs, his muscles scream for mercy and his heart—he could almost laugh at the very notion that _he_ has a heart—pounds with a force that makes him worry it shall burst from his ribs and shrivel up on the hot sand that surrounds him. He steps forward. One foot, then the other, and then the first foot again. So it repeats. He walks forward, trusting his new form to guide him to shelter, towards anything that will ease his pains, and tries his best not to think about what will happen to him should that trust be misplaced.

When evening arrives, he finds himself once more buried beneath the dirt. The air has begun to cool, but his skin burns as if the sun has settled itself within it. Now, exhaustion has beaten his stubbornness and he fears that he shall meet oblivion so soon after some foolish god seems to have granted him this generous gift.

He is barely conscious when a passing trader drags him from the sands and pours water down his throat. He is unable to register the irony that the very thing he hates is also what saves his life in one short moment. His world swirls around him as the unknown man talks and questions, tries to get some sort of response out of the life he has just saved. He is unconscious by the time they are through the gates of Babylon.

In what seems to be a twist of fate, the Dark Prince is brought into the gates of the great city he intends to conquer and destroy.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter TWs: General injuries, sun poisoning, hinting threats of violence against women, minor swearing._

* * *

The Dark Prince awakens to the sound of hushed whispers and a weight, cool and heavy, against his back. Panic grips him in an instant and he presses his hands into the surface beneath him, shoving the weight of his body upwards, only to hiss and curse as the sensation of molten rock courses down his flesh. It takes several seconds of sporadic breaths that cause his chest to heave up and down until he is able to reach back with a quaking hand and grasp onto the fabric that clings to him. He pulls, freeing himself from the unpleasant, damp sensation and hurling the offending rag across the room, causing his shoulders to scream in protest as the burning sensation returns with vigor.

Another shove of his hands brings him to his feet for only a moment before his knees buckle under his own weight and he crashes against the wall nearest to him, digging his nails into the rotting wood in a vein attempt to keep himself standing. Splinters dig into his already tender flesh, working their way into him and peeling apart his already torn and cooked form. He curses again, louder this time, and closes his eyes firmly, trying to will away his senses.

He finds that it does not work.

Gathering what wits he can, his ears catch the sound of a door being hurriedly opened and a concerned gasp. Another passes and he feels himself being pulled, guided back to what he now realizes had been a bed, by slender fingertips that seem to radiate with the sensation of the desert nights themselves. The figure has him back in the position he began in within seconds and the weighted sensation of the cloth has been returned to his wounded back – he finds the dampness is more preferable to the burning sting present only moments ago, much to his annoyance.

"Only a fool would rise in your condition." When he does not answer, the voice continues, "You are safe here, stranger. My word is my honor."

Slowly, he turns his gaze to meet the voice's own, teeth bared in something of an attempt to ward off further poking and prodding of his already sore body. In response, the figure – a young woman—removes her hands from the source of his misery, instead opting to return his look with one of apathy. "The pain will stop if you allow me to help you."

She moves carefully, as though she is aware of the danger he could pose, reaching out and smoothing down the ripples of fabric against him. He grunts in response, slowly resting his head against the soft pillow beneath him, watching as she moves to grab a pitcher that rests on the table near them. He grunts again, watching as she pours the liquid onto a rag, this time curling his lips in turn. "No. Another way."

The woman pauses, as if she is surprised that he can speak. "It will ease your—"

"Another. Way." He repeats the words, slower, as if she might not have understood him the first time. He hears the anger creep into his voice, sees her eyes spark with a glint of annoyance (the same annoyance he recognizes from the gaze a certain princess) before she relents, nodding and setting aside the liquid. There is a distinct _thunk_ as the clay hits the wood and a shiver works its way down his spine as the liquid inside sloshes about in an vilemanner; when he notices her perplexed gaze, he turns his head away, the tip of his nose pressing against the warm stone of the wall next to him.

The room is silent, no sound piercing through the air that seems to have thickened between them, and he can feel her eyes on him. Just as quick as it had begun, though, it ceases, and instead is pierced by the wooden legs of her chair sliding against the uneven flooring.

"Are you as opposed to plants as you are milk?"

"Milk?" He turns back slightly, eyeing the woman with suspicion. He says nothing, waiting for her answer, but when she does not offer one, he nods, "Whatever shrub it is will do fine."

He turns his face her fully now to watch her as she begins to trim the leaves off of a green plant with quick, clean slices of a small blade. From where he rests, he can see something ooze from the wounds, sticking to the blade and then snapping away as she rests the amputated segments onto a thin, white linen nearby. When she finishes, she brings them to him, setting them next to the pitcher and resting back into her seat.

"You are lucky Babak and his men found you when they did," she murmurs, slowly removing the fabric from his back. "Had they not been passing by, the night would have surely taken you."

"Lucky indeed. Had they come any sooner, I might not have felt the warmth of the sun blistering my back any longer! What a shame that might have been." He hisses, wincing as the girl begins to rub the tacky contents of the plant onto his wounded form.

"Are you always so grateful when the Divine spares you?" She leans forward, causing her off-black locks to feather against his sides, forcing him to suck in a breath as she continues pressing her fingers delicately against his skin.

"If I have been spared, it was not by some Divine being."

She hums softly, wiping the remaining unused innards of the plant from her hands onto the cloth they had previously occupied. Once she is satisfied, she settles her gaze to his and raises a thin brow at him. Her lips twitch, the ghost of a smile threatening to stretch across them as he watches her attempt to unravel the mystery of his person.

As she stands, carefully gathering the husks that once contained the relief resting upon his back, he notes how her honey-colored gaze lingers upon him. Another shiver works its way down his back and he briefly considers the thought that this girl might recognize him. Slowly, with shaking fingers, he reaches up and brings them to rest upon his cheek, silently confirming that this body bares no resemblance to his true form.

"What?" He narrows his eyes when she continues to stare. "What are you looking at?"

She blinks, her eyes moving away from him – he relaxes, the tension in his body dissipating within seconds. As it does, she answers, "I have never seen someone so young with hair like yours."

Quickly, his hands move from their position upon his face to his head, grasping at the strands upon it. He is surprised to find that she is right in her observation. His hair, bleached white as bones left for too long in the sun, stands out brightly against his skin. He chuckles, allowing his fingers to untangle themselves before looking at her with a smirk. "I suppose you have not."

The pads of her feet carry her away from him after some time – during which he suspects she has continued to watch him—and she deposits the waste outside, allowing a short-lived breeze to pass through the open doorway until she once more secures it closed. In that brief moment, he is able to hear the sounds outside of the dimly lit walls he has been confined to: horses, people talking, shouting, children playing, carts passing by with their wheels squeaking as they turn.

As she finishes latching the door closed, he cannot help but to question, "What city is this?"

"Babylon," she responds and he feels the heart in his chest skip several beats as the knowledge she has granted him rapidly rushes over him as a wave might crash against a ship at sea. "Why are you smiling like that?"

He clears his throat, swallowing back the disconcerting, triumphant grin that had formed on his face. In a moment, he turns his giddiness into a calm smile, though he still feels a fire behind his eyes. "Forgive me. It has been far too long since I have been within this city's walls. I am simply excited to return home after all this time."

She seems satisfied by his answer and if she has sensed any malicious intent behind his words, she does not make it known. Which has not been a lie, he notes, though there would be no guilt to eat at his conscious had it been one. She nods – a quick, single motion confirming that she accepts his explanation—before turning her attention to a closed window without prying into his eagerness further.

"Do you often save the lives of strange men, woman?" he says, something of a bored tone teetering on the edge of his tongue. "You have let me into your home and I see no husband to protect you."

Her body stiffens, the skin of her knuckles turning pale as she squeezes the edges of the wooden shutters. He chuckles, savoring the response her body provides, watching the smallest hints of fear course through her form. He continues, "I could be a dangerous—"

"I am no stranger to defending my life from the likes of those who wish to tear me asunder," she interrupts, slamming open the window shutters and turning, her eyes boring into him with a silent fury (now, he quietly wonders how he did not notice the scar that rakes its way across the right side of her face earlier). "I have just saved your life, stranger, and I can just as easily send you back to hell's doorstep. So if you truly wish to continue on with your vague threats, by all means do… but know that while you may be a cunning cat, I am not the timid mouse that will fill your empty belly."

He frowns, his teeth clenching together so tightly that he feels as though the danger of fracturing apart his skull is imminent. Despite the noises the drift through the now open window, he finds the silence between them is truly deafening and only releases the pressure from himself once the ringing in his ears becomes too much to bear. Finally, he clicks his tongue once and allows a mock smile to form upon his lips. "Do you have a name then? Or would calling you mouse suffice?"

"Azar." She pauses, the hard line that had been drawn upon her lips slowly relaxing with the rest of her form. "And what do I call you? Are you simply stranger, or do you prefer to be called a cat? Perhaps the roll of bastard suits you better?"

He grins at that. "My, my, such language from your feminine mouth. Tell me, do you always speak so harshly, or am I just special?"

"I asked you a question. Now, answer me or I may lose my patience." Her eyes have narrowed now, the fire burning behind them growing in size with each passing second. He finds that this only amuses him more.

"It would appear we have already stepped past the threshold that secured your patience, woman." He chuckles as her fingertips twitch and her eyes flare up with annoyance. "Forgive me. I meant to say: we have already stepped past the threshold that secured your patience, Azar/i. A simple mistake as I have only just learned what I should call you after all."

"Are you always so rude, or am I just special?"

"I like to refer to myself as clever, but if you prefer the term… who am I to stop you?"

"You are dodging my question," she counters, crossing her arms and pressing all her weight against one foot, cocking her left hip out (again he is reminded of a certain princess). "Your name?"

She has cornered him, announced to him that she knows of his little game, and left him without much of an escape route. A name, something so simple and yet something he has never been given. He very well cannot tell her he has no name, for the idea itself is absurd. He briefly considers giving her the name of the Prince, but after a moment of thought, decides it best to distance himself from the royal as much as possible for the time being. After several seconds that contain her gaze growing ever more suspicious, he answers, "How do I know you will not use my name in one of your rituals? A name is very powerful and I do not know your true intentions as of yet."

She barks out a laugh. "You think me a witch?"

"You have your potions sitting throughout this room!" He motions to the pitcher that still rests near him. "How do I know that you do not have more nefarious intentions?"

"I already told you, the pitcher contains milk. The sun has poisoned you and this would have ease what damage has been done, yet you refused," she argued and he finds himself surprised that she has not begun screaming at his nonsense. "Are you so scared of dark magic then? The plants themselves could be deadly and yet you allowed their use!"

"I have seen them before. It is of no danger to me, but what you have mixed inside the milk…" He trails off, motioning with a single finger to his skull and tapping lightly. "But, I hear that witches enjoy games—"

"Everyone enjoys games, stranger," she interrupts him; something akin to amusement slowly mixing itself into the frustration that still lingers on her features. Once more, the tension from the threat of exposure slowly dissipates as she ceases to pry further.

"I suppose that is true, but do not interrupt me," he confirms, taking the briefest of seconds to appear as though he is gathering up his previous thoughts. "If you are so keen to know what to call me, then you must simply guess it."

Another rise of her slender eyebrow as she scoffs, "Are you a child? Withholding what I should call you for what purpose other than infantile amusement? There are a million names you could be called; it would be impossible to narrow down such a massive list."

"If you are not up to the challenge—"

"Silence, you insufferable—"

"Bastard?" he chimes in, looking amused. He finds himself nearly thrown into a fit of laughter when she sucks in a breath sharp enough for him to hear. The game has yet to even begin and already he discovers he is greatly amused by her irritation alone.

"Insufferable _rat_." Her teeth remain tightly clenched together as she hisses the response. "I'll play your inane game if only because I will best you at it. Perhaps when I am done, I'll perform a spell on the prize, just for you!"

Carefully, he moves a hand up in a gesture of defeat, "Now, now, there is no need for such vicious threats between us. Can we not be civil?"

She chokes back a laugh, anger still evident in her features, until finally turning away from him sharply. "I'll be very civil, so long as you afford me the same courtesy."

He snorts in response, though Azar says nothing to express any annoyance at his behavior and instead sets another jug of unknown liquid beside him. His eyes narrow dangerously at the object, a huff pushing past his lips as he drops his head unceremoniously back onto the cool fabric beneath him. "What is _that_?"

"Water. Drink up; unless you truly do long for death's embrace that is," she states, as he grinds his teeth together. "I did not poison it, you superstitious fool. I would not waste my time caring for you all of yesterday if I had."

He slowly turns his gaze to her, relaxing his body to the best of his ability. His throat burns, he notes, and a small part of him knows that this new body must drink to survive, but the very thought of the liquid sitting inside of him brings the taste of bile to his tongue. There is no choice, not when the threat of death looms over him. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself up onto his elbows before reaching out and grasping onto the handle. Carefully he guides the jug to his mouth and even more carefully he swallows.

The relief is instantaneous. All at once, his body cools and the burning in his throat numbs. He is surprised to find that the trickles of pain that remained on his wounded back even seem to fade slightly more. How funny, he thinks, that the very thing that should banish him has brought him such pleasure. With greedy, ravenous mouthfuls he finishes the contents inside, gasping for air and slamming the empty vessel aside.

"There," he pants, trying to ignore the shaking of his body. "There, I have finished it."

Azar is watching him again, her brow furrowed in a funny way, but she makes no comment, only takes the empty container in her hands. "I'll bring you more soon then. For now though, you should rest."

"You do like to order me around, don't you, woman?" He chooses to ignore the look that invades her features, instead opting to let his sore limbs relax against the cot beneath him. "You will find that I do not take them well. One of my many vices."

"Try not to be insulted when I say that I am not surprised by this information," she sasses back at him. Her features soften, taking on the appearance she had when he had first gazed upon her not long ago. "Tell me then, before you rest, your name is it Rahim? Omid?"

"You choose to begin this game now? I thought you said I should rest," he complains, taking his time to try and discover the meaning behind her inquiry. "No. Those are not my name."

"Another time then, stranger."

"Yes, another time." As his eyes close, he hears her leave, the door she has entered through latching shut behind her. All the while, the sounds of the city continue to pour in from outside and through the opened window – he finds their melody to be more soothing than that of the most gentle of lullabies. As he falls into a deep slumber, his mind swirls with thoughts of slaughter and conquest, knowing now that his revenge has only just begun.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) My medical knowledge is somewhat limited, much more so concerning ancient techniques. I did some research into the types of treatments used for sun poisoning (especially in the past), but for the most part I decided to keep it vague, since I figure The Dark Prince would also have limited medical knowledge._

 _ii) The Dark Prince's apperance is based off of his concept art in the unreleased prototype of the third Prince of Persia game, Kindred Blades. He appears much more human in this version of the game, albeit much more like something not quite alive/a corpse. So, it isn't a perfect image of the apperance I'm giving him, but if you're wondering why he has white hair, I wanted a little shoutout._


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter TWs: Unreality, death, major injuries, throat trauma, war, mentions of harm to women/children._

* * *

The smell of smoke punctuates the air and swirls around him, threatening to fill his lungs with its very blackness. All around him, the heat of hell itself burns, splitting apart his head in a manner that causes his whole body to feel as if the world itself has been placed onto his shoulders, threatening to push him down into an endless abyss beneath him. When he opens his eyes, he is surprised to discover that this is not the case, but instead all around him the city burns. Quickly, he pushes himself onto his feet, scrambling out of the dirt as his eyes search the new landscape for any sign of what has transpired.

Flames roar around him, licking at his skin as they pour from shattering windows and ashen doorways. With a gasp, he presses himself safely away from them and into a stone barrier nearby. He hears women shrieking, begging for their children to be spared from the present horror. The clang of metal – the blades of swords—rings out and he swears that the very smell of death breaks through the wall of other, more preferable smells.

He should not be there, he surmises, staring at the war torn city that stretches out ahead of him. With the Vizier dead and the sands gone, Babylon should be in a time of peace, yet before him is evidence otherwise. He takes another cautious step back and hisses sharply when a shock of pain shoots through the left side of his body not unlike an arrow to the back. He reaches out, touching his hand to his arm in a vain attempt to stop whatever has caused the sudden agony, but this causes more pain as blades dig into the soft flesh, tearing it apart without effort.

He cries out, dropping to his knees and cursing wildly while looking at the source of his agony. Wrapped firmly around his arm he sees a sight that, in other circumstances, would normally bring him great joy. Instead it chews into him, causing blood to pool around him at an alarming rate. The Daggertail lies at his feet, gleaming in the firelight and trembling slightly with his every movement. If he was not its master, he might have thought the blade had managed to take on a life of its own. His flesh, still very much human, begs for relief, pounding at the edges of his mind in protest when he does not comply, howling in agony that he has yet to relieve this pain.

"Where am I?" he croaks, pushing himself off of the wall and stumbling forward on legs that threaten to buckle beneath his weight. "What is this place?"

He receives no answer within the wailing city and with labored breaths, he moves forward, grasping onto the remnants of walls and railings for support. It takes him several minutes until he finally falls forward, crashing down onto his knees as blood begins to soak the final unsoiled pieces of his attire. His head continues to pound, worse than before, as though his skull is chipping away piece by piece.

From somewhere in front of him, a woman calls out. Her voice is muddled, impossible to understand; it is as if he is drowning beneath the weight of the ocean and her voice resides on the surface, fathoms above him. He gazes towards the sound, only to find that he has been encircled by figures with faces obscured by a shimmering haze. The form in front of him sinks to its knees in a manner which mirrors his own. He falls backwards, forcing his body away from the thing as it reaches forward with an empty hand, beckoning him to take it in his own.

He stares, wide eyes with what he refuses to admit is fear, and he carefully reaches back, grasping onto the thing's hand. Around him, the sounds of screaming cease and the heat of the flames vanish, until the only thing left is the figures around him. All at once, his muscles relax and a pleasant warmth, one so different than what he was feeling moments ago, courses through him. The pain in his arm is gone, the Daggertail gradually loosening its viselike hold on him before clattering to the ground in a pile that reminds him of a dead cobra.

His heart is pounding in his chest.

Finally, he breaks his gaze from his discarded weapon, turning once more to the figure that still sits in front of him. Their hands are still intertwined and it does not move, does not breath, only continues to sit silently and watch him from somewhere under the glowing mist that surrounds its face.

"What are you?" He mutters, finally acknowledging the shaking in his voice and the fear that is tearing a hole into his chest.

The creature stands and he tightens his hold on it, trying to pull it back to his level and get the answers he so desperately wants. Despite his efforts, it pulls its hand free and turns to walk away, leaving him grasping at the empty air in front of him. Without warning, the screams resume and the heat of the burning city returns. He howls as agony returns to his broken form, cutting deep into his flesh as the Daggertail twists its way back onto his arm, once more tearing and slicing into his flesh without mercy.

When he finds the strength to glance up, to look for the figure that had briefly offered him some relief from this torture, he sees a woman standing before him, her dress flowing from her form and pooling around her like tar and muck. He searches for her face, but just as before, this figure has been clouded in a haze of gold, obscuring her identity from him.

She thrusts her hand forward, sending him flying back into a wall that he is sure had not been behind him previously. He groans, the pain pouring through his body like molten lead and shakes his head, willing away the confusion in his mind and replacing it with barely controlled ire.

As he plunges his arm ahead, the Daggertail snaps to attention, ready to obey its master in a single second. He forces himself to his feet, ignoring the cries of his body and brain to rest and instead replaces his torment with a twisted smile, baring his teeth at the woman. He finds that the scene has once more changed without his notice. The figures that had circled him before have all been brought to their knees, lining up in a row just ahead of this unknown attacker, crying out for something he cannot understand.

In her arms, one figure hangs loosely – the creature that had given him its hand and offered him relief. The woman holds it securely, an arm firmly pressed against it, holding it so close that he finds himself wondering if it might shatter from the pressure of her grasp.

"Get back!" he threatens, again snapping the Daggertail as he steps towards them. It digs itself further into his arm, but he pushes onward. "Let it go!"

He hears the muffled sound of speaking once more; this voice speaks sharply and with a purpose that causes a shiver to work its way up his spine. It is nothing like the ones earlier, and he strains to hear whatever it may speak. Suddenly, the stranger carves a blade through the air in front of her, gliding across the form as it thrashes in her arms. Time comes to a halt, silence washes over the city and the forms near her stay deathly still until finally blood – it looks like red silk, he realizes, as his stomach aches—begins to spill from the wound and onto the front of the creature.

It takes what seems to be hours for the thing to stop convulsing and succumb to the fatal blow that has been inflicted upon it. His chest aches and his heart pounds, all for reasons he cannot understand, until finally, he growls and rushes forward, the Daggertail soaring through the air towards the woman. Again, she thrusts a hand toward him, sending him back, only this time instead of a wall, there is only a black abyss to greet him.

The normal flow of time returns to him, he jolts forward, eyes wide and searching, trying to find a light to guide him within the blackness. Instead, to his confusion he finds onlylight surrounding him and the somewhat familiar setting he had first awoken in only days prior greets him. The knowledge does little to slow the beating of his heart though and he crumples down, pressing his chest against his knees in an attempt to regain control over himself.

As his senses return and he pushes the anxiety down into the depths of his psyche, he feels the tender touch of hands on his shoulder and back. He freezes – only for a moment—his body tensing as it assesses the strange touch for threats, before he decides to attack. Thrusting his weight to the side, he turns himself to face the stranger, his hand reaching out and fastening around their throat.

"Sneaking up on your patients is a good way to find yourself dead," he warns when he finds only Azar at the end of his assault. Her eyes are wide with both anger and surprise, but her hands have not moved, still reaching out for him in some silly display of compassion. He releases her, watching as she quickly moves to sooth the spots where his fingers had previously been digging into her flesh.

"I thought you might be hurt!" she snaps, shoving her hands at him and standing, putting distance between them. "Forgive me for being concerned."

She turns away from him, watching outside as the first light of the day continues to pour through the open window. They remain that way for some time, neither saying a word while they both recover from the shocks they have suffered so early in the day. Absentmindedly, he rubs a hand on his arm and notices that her own hand still has not left her throat, though she appears to be in no pain from his sudden outburst.

"You could at least apologize," she states, facing him once more.

He huffs, annoyed, sending a stray strand of white hair that has tickled onto his face flying upwards. Her eyes narrow in response, clearly not amused that he finds that no transgression has occurred between them. He watches her as another, smaller breath rushes past his lips. "You surprised me. Do you often grab people as they slumber?"

"You were dreaming. Something terrible." Her eyes have softened now, but the spark of irritation lies beneath the surface. He knows his actions have not left her mind, no matter how sympathetic her voice sounds. "I heard you screaming and I thought—"

"You were hearing things," he insists. "Oh, do not tell me you were worried?"

"Hearing things? Ha!" She rests herself against the table nearest to her, legs outstretched towards him and hands clasping the wood until her knuckles of pale against her rich, russet brown flesh. "You are stubborn as a mule, you know."

"Another of my more charming qualities." He yawns, falling back onto the mattress beneath him with a soft poofas air rushes out from the fabric. "Only a week I've been confined here and you've already nearly guessed them all. Good work."

"Yet somehow I have yet to guess your ever so elusive name." She pauses, chewing on her lip gently. "Ehsan?"

"You've already said that one. Yesterday morning."

Her feet slide back, boots scratching against the floor in an unpleasant manner, causing the hairs on his arms to stand. "Hard to keep track when I have already guessed so many, you know. This game of yours is getting tired and you cannot possibly tell me that you prefer me calling you stranger."

Lazily, he picks at his fingernails; his eyes remain open, but only just, as he continues the action, choosing silently to ignore her frustrations. Though if he was being honest, he was quite impressed that she had not chosen to give up already and admit defeat. In the course of a week she has spouted off dozens of names, maybe hundreds, and despite his resolve to remain anonymous, she still spewed off dozens more each time they spoke. Not one sat right though.

Born nameless and trapped with only his counterpart to speak to had left him with little reason to desire such a humannovelty. His existence simply was, no need to attach some frivolous label to it – unless that title was king, that is. Or at least, that is how it had been. Now, as he paraded around in this very much human form, the thing seemed required if he did not want to have any reason to stand out of place from the rest of the common folk.

How annoying.

"Try harder, I'm sure you're getting so close." He finally replies, eyes slowly shifting to watch her again. Raising a white brow, he smirks. "I find myself nearly rooting for you. Such determination. An admirable quality… in the right amounts."

He cannot help but chuckle when she rolls her eyes in response, pushing herself forward and balancing on her feet. Walking a few steps, she takes hold of a pitcher. "Fine then, continue on with your namelessness. Soon enough, whether you have one or not, it will no longer be my concern."

"So ready to be rid of me? Such a shame." He began, nose scrunching up slightly when he digs too deeply beneath his fingers. "And I thought we were just starting to become friends."

"I find bonding quite difficult when you do nothing to repay me for all I have done." She sets the pitcher of cool water on the table next to him, as if it will bring emphasis to her words. "Those herbs were not cheap. Nor does that bring into account all the food you have practically pilfered from my kitchen!"

"A smarter person would know not to offer their services to strangers before they knew if they had the coin." Hoisting himself up, he grabs onto the heavy jug and cautiously brings it to his lips, consuming some of the liquid inside. "If I recall, I never did ask for your help. I only awoke after you had already taken the selfless task upon yourself."

Her eyes narrow and he quickly, but with meticulous movement, finishes off the water before teasingly saying, "Determined and noble. You know, I think I've almost gotten you figured out too."

Azar meets his gaze for a moment, her eyes still sparking with annoyance at his behavior. Her arms cross over her body and weight shifts to one leg, another one of her mannerisms that all too much reminds him of Farah. He wonders, do all women have these aggravating tendencies, or is he just so lucky as to always run into them?

"I must go to the market for supplies. If I'm lucky Roshanak will still have what I need among her wares." Once more her eyes narrowed, resting the blame on her visitor. "What luck too, that you are well now. Tomorrow evening you will be able to leave my home and I can get back to the normal flow of business!"

"Tomorrow evening?" He sputters, shoulders tensing. "You said nothing to suggest soon would be sosoon."

"Oh?" She mocks, her lips pressed thin. "Well, consider this your notice."

Without another word, Azar steps through the door. As it slams shut behind her, he winces and bares his teeth in agitation. Of course he had known that his stay with the girl was not a permanent situation (nor an ideal one, as he should have never been under her care to begin with), but it had quickly become a source of shelter. He has no gold and while obtaining the coin would prove to be no serious problem, running about and thieving such large amounts will only attract unwanted attention to his person.

With no weapons and only tattered garments hanging – barely—onto his skin, he is already more than aware that a confrontation with his other half is suicide. This body is weak, requires more care than he would like, but it also provides him an escape from the void he has been wandering endlessly since his defeat. He shudders.

He needs a plan; he needs his Daggertail.

Reaching up, he rakes a hand through his hair, tugging it through the knots and tangles in frustration. As it stands, he decides, this place is a source of shelter, food, and (he groans) water. His body, although better, still aches when he moves and the skin at his back still peels grotesquely from the damage brought on by the sun. For now, he needs the wench; needs her home until he can be reunited with his precious weapon and face the heir of Persia without worry that he may collapse in the heat of battle.

Azar is already annoyed with him, he is sure that is the true reason behind her sudden announcement. He will need to play nicer with her then if he wants to stay in her home. An annoying trait of humans, he thinks, is how much they value their pointless manners.

With a loud sigh, he pushes himself up from the cot that has been his resting place for several days and grabs a single pair of boots that Azar had brought him only a few days prior. Slipping them onto his feet takes more effort than he would like, as the skin on his shoulders still protests as he moves, but within only a few minutes the task is finished. It is then that he moves to the door and pushing it open. Gazing out, The Dark Prince watches silently as the city moves freely and without worry before setting out onto the city streets for the first time since his arrival.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter TWs_ : _Mentions of minor injuries/broken appendages._

* * *

The streets of Babylon are much the same as The Dark Prince remembers. Children run along the road next to carts carrying wares, hitting together sticks and yelling nonsense, while adults go about their daily work. If he had not been present for the Vizier's attack, he could almost be fooled that no war had taken place within the city's walls in the first place. Most of the destruction caused by the invading army has been reversed, with entire buildings having been rebuilt completely and others scrubbed clean of their damage.

As he gracefully weaves his way through the masses that crowd the streets, his eyes search for his hostess amongst them. With his intimate knowledge of the city, he is able to quickly find a nearby marketplace, cluttered with stalls and merchants shouting about their goods. From there he moves quickly until he stumbles, quite literally, into a familiar face.

His stomach drops.

Before him stands none other than the Prince of Persia, face contorted in a funny manner as he blinks away the confusion their collision has caused him. For a moment, The Dark Prince considers fleeing, for if anyone in the accursed city is to recognize him, it would be the man before him, but another and much louder part of him tells him to stay put. Fleeing would only bring about more suspicion and the last thing he needs is palace guards searching every crevice of the city for him. He stays planted where he is, eyes wide and jaw pressed tightly together as he watches the royal brush off his tunic slightly.

"My apologies." The Prince looks up at him; a sincere smile on his face and the demon finds it almost impossible to stop himself from attacking the royal right there. "I really should keep an eye on where I am going."

"You should," he snaps, but grimaces immediately after the words leave his mouth.

If he was not busy mentally kicking himself he might find the absolute taken aback look on the face of his rival something worth a laugh. Instead, his shoulder tense and he suddenly finds it hard to breath. He feels weak, very small, in front of the man before him and he tries to attribute that to the fact that nearby several guards have now placed their hands upon their weapons, rather than the fact that this unexpected encounter has put him deeply on edge. This battle, no matter how small, is not something he is prepared for.

The Prince's eyes narrow, his brow scrunching up as looks him up and down. "Yes. Well, I will endeavor to do so in the future."

This time, The Dark Prince presses his teeth together tighter, so they are viselike in their pressure. A reckless mistake, he chides himself, one he cannot afford to make. For now his only hope is that the royal will move on, choosing to ignore his brash comments and dismiss him as he would any other of the rabble on the streets. Then again, he has never been so lucky and as the man before him had once stated, wishful thinking has only ever led to disappointment.

"And who are you?" The Prince questions, his eyes moving up to examine the unusual hair color The Dark Prince had been given in his new form. "Until this instant, I do not recall ever seeing you upon Babylon's streets."

"My origins are not of your concern." He is shaking now, just slightly, but he keeps his head high as rage builds within his chest, threatening to ruin his plans at any moment. His fingers dig into his palms as his fists tighten and his breathing comes in uneven bursts.

The Prince stands steady before him, dark eyebrows raised and a deep frown forming from his lips. Finally, the shock of his answer wears off and his eyes narrow, giving a silent threat to the man standing before him. A dangerous path has been taken, The Dark Prince knows this, but he cannot find the will to stop himself from poking and prodding at every nerve he knows the man in front of him has. His heart begins to beat even faster.

"What is going on here?" For once he is more than grateful to hear Azar's voice break the silence that has fallen and both men turn to look at the woman that stands nearby. She glances between them, seemingly trying to deduce what the source of their conflict is, but quickly stops and instead turns to him with narrowed eyes. "What are you doing up? You will only injure yourself further."

Before he can find the words to respond, the Prince steps towards her, a hand now resting pointedly on the hilt of his sword. "Azar? You know this man?"

"One of my patients. A troublemaker too." She glares at him before softening her expression and turning to the royal. Only after bowing her head do her eyes narrow as she stands straight and cross her arms. "You've returned from India already then, Sargon? How rude that you have not dropped by to say hello."

"Yes, well…" Sargon trails off, while his eyes regard his disguised counterpart with distaste. His ice colored gaze sends violent chills through his whole body, and Azar stands by silently once more assessing the situation she has stumbled upon with uncertainty. His stomach churns painfully and the fact that this peasant girl knows The Prince does not ease the tension, if anything the air feels thicker and he finds that it is hard to breath.

Gathering his wits – something that takes more effort than he cares for—he finally speaks, addressing Azar while keeping his gaze locked onto his enemy. "I came looking for you."

A pause.

"Distracted as I was, I did not notice your… friend here before me. Clumsy mistake." A mistake indeed; the royal continues to watch him, their eyes locked onto one another and every time words fall from his lips, he can see a glint pass through the monarch's eyes that makes his skin prickle uneasily. The threat of being caught seems upon him. "My fault entirely."

The tension in Sargon's shoulders seems to lift, if only slightly, and though the strange gleam in his eyes has not been erased, it is distant enough for The Dark Prince to relax somewhat in turn. He takes the time to ease the rapid beating of his heart, while the other man slowly removes his hand from the sword at his hip. Carefully, he places it upon the girl's shoulder, fingers squeezing gently in what the demon suspects is some sort of sympathetic human gesture he is unfamiliar with.

"It is good to see you well, Azar," Sargon states quietly. She bows her head in response and it takes all he has not to gag in disgust that she shows such respect for the pathetic excuse of a ruler. "Pay my respects to Omid and Rahim. And your mother."

Rising her hands, Azar carefully places them upon Sargon's forearm. The pair exchanges a sympathetic smile before the Prince finally straightens himself and pulls back, letting his arm fall back to his side. When he turns back to his counterpart, the creature quickly hides his sneer and looks to the ground, hiding from his prying eyes. His gaze lingers for only a second longer before Sargon steps past him without a word and The Dark Prince turns to watch him, waiting until he had thoroughly vanished into the crowd before muttering a quiet curse and running a quivering hand through his hair.

"You should be resting."

"How do you know that man?" he questions, turning to Azar who watches him with a perplexed expression. "Don't think I did not notice that palace guards. Friends with the Prince of Persia himself are you?"

Her lips stretch downwards slightly, a frown tracing over them as she continues to eye him as though she has never been in his presence before. "No. Not friends, though I do know him, yes."

"Not friends and yet you address him so casually! Ha!" His mock laugh is sharp and Azar's turns her head away slightly with a grimace to avoid the sound. "Shouldn't the common rabble grovel and kiss his boots as he passes?"

"Not _my_ friend, but my brother's." Narrowing her eyes, Azar turns back to meet his gaze. Her words hide a silent fury beneath their calm façade, reminding him how much her patience has thinned since their last conversation in her home.

"Brother?" He puzzles, eyebrows raised as he rakes his memories – the Prince's memories—for the mysterious sibling she speaks of. He finds there are too many people to recall though. As a youth Sargon had been particularly prone to leaving the palace walls to mingle with his citizens; a past weakness that seemed to have remained in place despite the shifts in the Timeline. "You have never spoken of him before now."

"A stranger should not be so curious, in my opinion," she retorts, as she offers him a basket that had been resting at her side up until then. "Help me carry this home then since you are already up."

With a sigh, he takes the basket and watches as she kneels slightly to scoop another resting at her feet into her arms. They walk together in silence for some time, heading back towards their destination and slipping through the crowds of people still going about their daily business. When he finally speaks, he keeps his eyes straight ahead, rather than turning to see her expression. "How did you meet then?"

Beside him, he hears Azar laugh slightly and rather than having been filled with a twinge of annoyance, it is the first truly joyous sound he has heard pass her lips since they have become acquainted. "He is a troublemaker, just as you are."

His fingers grip the basket tighter as he buries his anger of being compared to his traitorous counterpart. Thankfully, she does not notice his slight change in demeanor and continues. "As a youth, he would wander the city streets, hiding from his brothers and teachers to avoid his lessons. So, it is no surprise that one time while running about the rooftops, he slips and crashes into my poor mother!

"I suppose destiny is funny that way though, as he had broken his arm in the fall." He spares as glance in her direction and finds her smiling at the memory, her eyes somewhat distant as she recalls the events. "My mother was a skilled doctor, you see, she taught me herself. Apprenticed me when I was practically still a babe. Anyway, where was I?"

"He had broken his arm in the fall, you said," he reminds her, but he finds himself able to finally recall the memory from the others he shares with his counterpart. It is a hazy thing, having happened so long ago and not properly belonging to him, but it is still present. Azar continues to speak, but he finds himself distracted from her words as he allows the moving images to play out within his mind.

The child prince had been running on rooftops and not having the experience that years of training had given him, he thought himself capable of more than he was. Foolishly (though foolishness was not uncommon for Sargon even now, he mused), he had attempted a jump that even now would be a difficult feat. He had been falling to the streets in moments and a little voice inside his mind had screeched at him for being so senseless, crying that the fall would surely kill them – an overreaction really.

When he landed, hard and with a sharp cry, his arm had seared painfully and somewhere beside him a woman was slowly picking herself up off the ground. It seemed that luck was on his side that day and she had bore no ill for his mistake and appeared to be unharmed, if anything she seemed more concerned with his health. He only discovered later, when she had gotten him to her home with the help of her son (a boy who had screamed furiously at the injured Prince for nearly harming his mother the entire trip), that she was one of Babylon's most notable healers.

After finally getting him to lie still on the bed, she had splinted his broken appendage and given him medicine to help ease the pain. All the while, a whelp of a girl had stood uselessly by, her eyes wide with fear and fascination as she watched her mother work. When the task was finished, the older woman had ordered the child to fetch the guards who searched desperately outside for their young charge. The sounds of curses and heavy footsteps soon followed and after they had thanked the woman more times than he could count, Sargon had been carried back to the safety of the palace (and the scolding of his mother and father).

Days later, he had been brought back to the family, guided by the queen and several guards, a small bag of golden coins hanging from his hand, while the other arm was slung uselessly by his chest. Under the watchful eye of his mother, he had been made to apologize for his carelessness and to pay for the supplies the healer woman had provided him without hesitation.

The memory was not a fond one, but The Dark Prince finds that it had not been a terrible one either, rather a memory padded within unpleasant circumstances. A string of destiny that could have been avoided with the right precautions and a little less bravado. But alas it had not and shortly after Sargon had befriended the same youth who had screamed at him before and the two had become nearly inseparable.

Omid, he recalls finally; his name was Omid.

"You knew him?" Azar has paused, standing still in the street and watching him, her brow furrowed.

He stops just ahead of her. His body tenses before turning to her, eyes locking on her own as he tries to read her expression. "What?"

"My brother. You said his name and I have not mentioned it." Her expression finally softens and her fingers grip into the woven basket she carries tighter. He watches the change in demeanor curiously, while chiding himself for being so careless as to speak his thoughts aloud. "How?"

He frowns. Something of a lie is in order, of course, though he knows nothing of the Omid of this timeline, nothing about the minor changes that may have taken place. A simple one will work best, something to calm the girl's nerves and keep her from pestering him with ridiculous questions. He does not need her to find that his stories contradict themselves after all.

"Yes, well, I have not seen him since I was last in the city. His royal highness mentioned his name. It is only right to assume… " A lie filled with half-truths, he thinks, since he had no memories of Omid since the Prince had left for the Island of Time some years ago. "Childhood acquaintances. Nothing more; I barely know him."

Azar gazes at him curiously for a moment before her eyes finally fall to the street beneath them. "Oh."

She begins to walk again and he is happy to find that she says nothing further on the topic, choosing instead to leave it behind them. They continue on in silence. Taking the brief time to contemplate his next course of action, the demon knows he must act quickly if he wants to appease the girl. Her decision from earlier in the day still hangs between them and with the Prince's gaze having been set upon him, he knows that he will have to remain on his best behavior for some time. Just to be safe.

Once they finally reach the door of her small dwelling, he waits at the steps, allowing her to wedge open the door and slip through. He follows suit. Inside, he finds Azar already at work, hanging some of her purchases up to dry and planting others within small pots of dirt to bloom. He watches before striding over, carefully setting his basket next to the other. He says nothing, just continues to watch her as she digs with her slender fingers, the tips of which have been embedded with dark earth, and plants bulbs and seeds within.

"Hang this." She slides a small bundle of green leaves in his direction, not looking up from her task. He stares at the things before taking them in his hand and bringing them to his nose. They smell fresh, similar to the incense that he vaguely recalls had burned within many of the palace rooms. He turns them over in his hands, examining their leaves and colors as vague memories once more whisper in the back of his mind.

"Careful with that." Azar's voice breaks his concentration and memories vanish like smoke before he has a chance to stop them. She has turned her gaze to him now, her head tilted slightly. Her lips verge on a frown.

Hastily, he clears his throat and reaches up to tie the bundle on the line that hangs above them. Seemingly satisfied, Azar turns back to her original task, which he once again watches with mild interest. Cautiously he decides to speak, "Earlier I was rather rude."

She pauses. He takes it as a good sign.

"You were right." He lies, coolly. "I should be more grateful towards you. Had you not offered such a kindness, I would surely be dead by now. I humbly present you an apology for my behavior."

"I'm glad that you have seen the light, stranger." She raises a brow. "Consider your apology accepted."

She turns back to her work and he slides a hand to cover the next pot she grasps before continuing, "I have no coin to repay you, you see. As you can imagine, I did not end up naked in the desert of my own design and until I was brought to you, my luck has been… well, let us just say it has been poor. In fact, I have been rather lucky that you have allowed me into your home so freely and when I leave tonight, I'm afraid that I will have no place to go. I just wanted to offer you my thanks for such generosity."

Azar raises a brow and smirks, moving her hand away from the clay vessel and turning to rest her back against the table. "Let me guess, you would be ever so grateful if I would allow you to remain here? You have come to understand the error of your ways and now that you have apologized, I should take pity on you? After all, my poor heart must feel some painful tug at the thought of you sleeping out on the cold streets?"

His eyes widen a bit and he opens his mouth to protest. At the sight, Azar's head falls back and she laughs. Her shoulders shake and finally she sets her eyes upon him, that same smirk from before mocking him. She taps her fingernails in rhythmic bursts, waiting for him to respond.

"Fine. You caught me," he growls. "But I am not lying when I say I have no coin and no place to go."

"And I should just let you stay here?" She is still looking at him with that insufferable smile on her face. Placing a hand on her chest, she finishes, "Out of the kindness of my heart?"

His eyes narrow and he lets an irritated hiss pass from his lips.

"Come now, I am not so cruel." She snickers, lifting a hand and patting it against his cheek softly. "I'll let you stay. On one condition."

He rips his face away from her, baring his teeth in a threatening manner before snatching her hand in his own. She raises a brow in response, yanking her hand back and crossing her arms defiantly. "No please, no thanks needed. Though, your appreciation is simply astounding, I must say."

"What is it you want, woman?"

She smiles. "Nothing you cannot afford."

With that, she strides away, taking a few steps away from him before grabbing a broom that had been resting in the corner up until that moment. Turning it around in her hands, she examines it for a moment before turning to him, that self-satisfied smirk once more plastered upon her face. She thrusts her arm forward slightly, tossing the thing to him and he quickly grabs it before it falls to the ground below them.

"Well then," she chuckles, "get cleaning."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) Are people still doing the thing where they put name meanings in the author's notes? I hope so because these names were all picked very carefully! Sargon is an Assyrian name that translates to "true king" or "only king." I never mentioned it before, but Azar is a Persian name translating to "fire." I'll translate any other mentioned names as the characters become more relevant to the story, or mentioned more frequently._

 _ii) I went and saw Venom not too long ago (after a fan of the comic for years, can I just say I'm so happy to see a bigger fandom surrounded around this series?) and honestly, so many of Venom and Eddie's interactions could play out as the Prince and Dark Prince. Especially the "pile of bodies, pile of heads" bit._

 _iii) I have about 34 chapters for this fic currently of about sixty, but due to starting a new job and moving, I've slowed down a bit in writing. Hopefully I can get back on track and start posting more updates. I don't want to leave anyone hanging for too long and I want to ensure this story is finished so there aren't super long wait times. So, no worries... once things are edited, I can start posting a bit more!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter TWs: Mentions of violence against women._

* * *

The days have begun to get hotter, he notes, falling back against his small cot with a huff. His clothes stick to him unpleasantly and he finds himself shedding layers to keep from succumbing to the sun's vicious onslaught. With a heavy groan, he pulls free of his tunic, balling it up tightly and throwing it onto the table nearby. It hits the wall with a dull _thump_ before landing on the surface and he is pleased to find that the fabric of his pillow is much cooler than the air around him. He savors the feeling.

Outside of the room, he can see Azar tending to her strange herbs. Her clothes also stick to her flesh and sweat drips down her forehead, causing the dark strands of her hair to cling to her in a manner that looks uncomfortable. Every few minutes, she brings the back of her hand to her face and wipes away the offending fluid. Otherwise, she makes no indications of her discomfort.

He scoffs.

She glances over at him and raises a thin brow. "It should begin to cool off soon. With the way you go about complaining, one would think you had never experienced a day of warmth in your life."

"Heat I do not mind. In fact, I rather enjoy it." He says, using his feet to pry his boots off. "It is the sweating I could do without."

She chuckles quietly and returns to her task. The blade in her hand works its way back and forth, slicing into some plant unknown to him. Quickly, he loses interest in her, instead allowing his eyes to close and pulse to slow. Sleep begins to embrace him – the air is thick, almost too much so for him to allow the feeling to overtake him—but just as its arms begin to finish their hold, Azar interrupts, jarring him awake once more. "You only just finished cleaning. Would it not be better to keep your clothing off the furniture for at least a few hours?"

"I am the one who cleaned, so I will do as I please. One shirt lying about does not a mess make." He snaps, keeping his eyes firmly shut.

For a moment, he thinks she has admitted defeat and allowed silence once more to fall into the home. It is not long before he finds that while he is half right, Azar does not seem as content with the latter as he certainly is. "Very well, then let us speak of other things."

"It is too hot for speaking." He complains.

"Don't be silly." She chides and he can hear her set her knife aside. "If anything it will distract us until night falls."

With a sigh, he hoists himself up. "Fine then. I doubt any sleep could be comfortable as it is now anyway."

"Xerxes?"

"Really? This again, I thought you might have given up by now." He pushes his hair back with a sticky hand. "No. Don't you think that is much too obvious anyway? I'm surprised you hadn't guessed it sooner."

She hums softly, slowly approaching and taking a seat beside him. "Yes, but as I said, I have begun to run out of ideas. The obvious is much of all I have left."

"Don't sit there."

"I will sit where I please in my own home."

"The heat is unbearable as it is, I do not need yours on top of it."

She rolls her eyes. "I thought it was the sweat?"

"Either way." He grumbles. Her eyes roll once more, but she protests no further and instead moves away from him, taking a seat on the top of the wooden table that rests across the room. As she folds her legs beneath herself, one knee bumps against the fabric of his discarded tunic and she swats it away with a murmur of exasperation. He tries not to look smug about the situation. "Take another guess."

Azar sits back, folding her leg together and picking at her nails. "Bahadur?"

"No."

"Surely it must be Firuz?"

"Wrong again."

She sighs. Her hair begins to stick to her forehead again and the ends of it have begun to frizz in the heat. The image adds to the air of irritation that surrounds her and he smiles despite himself. Almost as if she can hear his thoughts, she reaches back to gather up the mess and ties it back, pulling the cord holding the top of her tunic shut free to do so.

"Arman?" She inquires, letting her hands fall back to her sides, tracing a finger against the grain of the wood. Her nail picks into the surface, damaging the table in ways only those with keen eyes would notice. Her frown deepens. "Or perhaps you are called Seti?"

"Neither."

With a howl of anger, she takes his discarded top into her hands and throws it towards him. The fabric hits his face and he thrashes his hands about in an attempt to grab the thing before tearing it away and glaring in her direction. He hates the sparkle of amusement that dances in her eyes and the bark of laughter that escapes her mouth. She pretends not to notice his annoyance.

"Was that really necessary?" He says, tossing the tunic away towards the end of his bed. It slides to the floor silently and Azar shakes her head, a huff of breath working past her lips – more than likely due to the fact that he is already creating a mess. Not that it is her business what he does, he thinks. "You are the one who insists on continuing to play this game. If you are tired of guessing, then simply give up. My name is not so important anyhow."

"I do not like losing." She remarks, leaning forward slightly.

He rolls his eyes in response and she continues to watch him, quiet now. They sit like that for several minutes, neither saying a word, trying their best to ignore the heat of the day that finally begins to recede as the sun sinks and the moon rises in the sky. All the while, sweat continues to cling to his skin, running against the contours of his flesh in tiny rivets. He brushes them away with a look of disgust.

After the silence has dragged on longer than he finds himself comfortable with, he casts his gaze back towards his companion. Her eyes are still on him. He scrunches his nose, the awareness of her watching him settling in his stomach awkwardly like a heavy stone. His mind turns once more to the thought of discovery and he tries not to think of the possibility of the Prince of Persia charging in heroically to slay him once again. Perhaps it would be best if he killed the girl now, if he stuffed the body somewhere and told those who came to find her that she was out and would be back later.

He is sure that would go well: You have come to see Azar? Well, I have not seen here since yesterday. What am I doing in her home? I'm her patient. No, no. I am sure she will return later, if you would just—Oh you were here yesterday? Well, how strange. Not like her at all I am sure.

No. For all the annoyances, the situation he found himself in was for the best. If he attracts too much attention, someone might try to get the city's guards involved, or worse they might take the matter directly to Sargon. An outcome he knows he simply is not ready for. Not yet. Not until he finds a proper weapon, not until he has the upper hand against his counterpart. He needs the Daggertail, after that some part of him cries that the rest will fall into place.

"Merikh?"

Her voice startles him, bringing him out of his thoughts so quickly that he can feel the back of his skull pounding in protest. His gaze falls back on her and he snarls, his anger at her hypothetical involvement in his capture still weighing heavily on his mind. "What?"

"Merikh. Is that your name?"

A bubble of annoyance works its way up to his chest. She really is intent on playing this game to its end. The novelty of her frustrations is beginning to wear off as the game continues to drag on (though he is aware that the novelty of the game never truly appealed to the girl in the first place). Or perhaps the heat is just getting to him. He pretends it is the former.

"Why would you think I would be called that then?" He questions, voice teetering between exhaustion and ire. "Come now. Surely you have a reason."

Her head falls slightly to one side. "The game was that you answer me, not interrogate me about my reasoning. Yes or no?"

"Answer my question and I shall give you what you desire." Grunting a bit, he pulls his feet onto the bed. "Oh, don't give me that look. Can I not be curious? I really should have been asking the entire time."

"Very well." Something of a sigh rushes from her mouth and her shoulders slump, hands supporting the sudden weight as she casts her gaze upon him with a half-amused raise of her brow. She raises one arm suddenly, pointing a single finger in his direction and narrowing her eyes. "Though I will hold you to your end of the bargain."

He raises his hands up in a gesture of surrender and she smiles, just a bit. "There is an air about you. A hunger in your eyes that does not remind me of anything I have seen before. I see it when you think I am not looking."

He tenses, his muscles freezing rapidly and his entire body feels as if he has plunged beneath the surface of the ocean. He finds it hard to breath. She watches him again, observing the sudden change of behavior with interest before continuing. "Something has brought you to this city, something that cannot simply be blind luck. That hunger in your eyes. That is why I said Merikh."

He sucks in a breath, holding it in as he tries to gather his thoughts and calm the dull ache that still resides in the back of his head. When his lungs begin to burn, he releases his hold, slowly allowing the air to push from his nostrils before taking it just as slowly back in. When he is finally done, he looks at her, smirking and confident as ever, "A fool's reasoning then? I thought you might have thought of something clever."

"Is it always your aim to insult me?" She hisses, her teeth gritted together and cheeks flushing so quickly that he snorts from the sheer absurdity of her appearance – the ends of her tress even seem to stick out more. "You asked for a reason and I have given it! I shall not play the part of the fool in this grand game you have sought to play. Now, fulfill your end of our agreement before the ground outside becomes your quarters for the night!"

A short laugh and a roll of his eyes are her first response. Giving her time to silently fume, he curls a wisp of his white locks upon one finger, taking his time to weigh his next words carefully. "Fine then, a deal is a deal. Now, would you stop looking at me like that? I was only joking."

 _Mostly_. Though he decides it best to keep that to himself. He also elects to ignore the weight her words have cast upon him, which still makes his stomach do awkward flips and a bitter taste rise to his mouth. Instead, he says, "Merikh is a fine name."

In truth, it is simply a name. One that holds no meaning to him besides the fact that it is a means to an end. It will do, he decides.

Her mouth opens slightly, lips pursing slightly as her brows furrow. Before she has a chance to speak, he continues, "It would seem you have guessed correctly. Our little game has been brought to an end. What a shame."

She says nothing, which admittedly surprises him. He rather expected her to make a big show of the whole thing, threatening to use his name in some magic spell as she had when they had first spoken. She sits there instead, eyes cast upon the floor and body still. Frozen in place, like a statue.

"Come on then. Say something."

A smirk slowly makes its way to her features and she leans back against the wall, chin tilted up slightly towards the ceiling as she watches him with an amused gaze. When she speaks, her voice is edged with hints of mirth, "It is nice to meet you, Merikh."

"Yes, yes. How nice to finally be properly introduced." He returns her stare, fighting back a grin of his own. "Azar."

She laughs. It starts at her shoulders and works its way down until she is finally gripping onto the sides of her stomach. It is a sight to behold, as he is used to her frustrated glances and half amused snickers. He finds himself joining her, amused by the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

"Have I already told you how stubborn you are?" She says between fits of giggles. "All this could have been avoided had you been reasonable."

He chokes back another wave of laughter, his chest shaking slightly. "The game brought you some entertainment, did it not? And if anything it filled your time."

He expects her mood to sour then, but instead her eyes narrow, obscuring her gaze from him as a smirk stretches its way onto her lips. "I have plenty to do without your help. You forget I have patients to care for."

"I have not forgotten." He says. "Though your other patients cannot be nearly as much fun as I am. Surely you agree?"

She responds by pushing herself up off the table and rolling her eyes dramatically, though her humor remains ever present. As she turns her back to him, striding from the room and back towards her strange herbs, he gathers that their conversation has come to an end. Still, he watches her for a while longer, trying to ignore the strange chill that works down his back when she turns her gaze back to him; her dark eyes search his and he cannot help but wonder if she can see beneath his façade. As if she can sense his discomfort, her gaze shifts away, lingering on the ground, but distant with thought. He forces himself to look away and only relaxes once more when the scraping of her knife resumes.

What previous amusement he had felt rapidly vanishes.

Air pours from his nostrils. The tension in his muscles slowly dissipates. His head clears. Everything slowly returns to how it should be and Azar makes no attempts to pry into her assumptions about what has brought him into the city. She is more perceptive than she gives herself credit for and the thought of doing away with her before her curiosity proves to be his downfall creeps back into his thoughts.

He lets it sit there.

A wave of anger overtakes him and returns him to the shores of ire that he is most familiar with. He lets it push him and sink into every dark crevice in his mind; as he falls back onto the mattress, the idea continues to play out until it is so clear he is sure it could be a memory. He is getting impatient. All this lounging around, the time he has wasted waiting for his wounds to heal, has cost him valuable time. He needs to act.

Surely he has been brought back for a purpose and not by some divine being. No. This could only be the work of one thing, he decides, bringing his hand to eye level with his face. He twists the appendage back and forth, taking in the warm brown-red of his flesh, with a satisfied grin. Yes, for all the power of some God, only one thing could have possibly brought him back.

"The Sands of Time." He mutters, hushed as to keep Azar from hearing him. "But how?"

The Sands of Time are gone, at least to the best of his knowledge. He had watched Kaileena leave their realm through Sargon's eyes; he had witnessed as she had destroyed the last of the artifacts and with them his last chance to reign over the world as a god. It should not be possible. Despite every reason he brings forth as to just how impossible this should be, nothing appeals to and frightens him more than the possibility that his theory is correct.

It has to be correct.

There is simply no other magic strong enough. None that he is able to recall, even over the many adventures that his other half had been through over the many years, with the ability to raise the dead. And he had been at least hovering the line between life and simple existence after he had been left to rot in the forgotten darkness of the royal's conscious, had he not?

Perhaps that is what scares him. Not how. No, how seems to have a simple enough explanation, even with the many other questions it raises. The more troubling question that fills his mind is _why_. Why has he been brought back? Surely if it was the Sands doing, The Empress brought him back for some purpose, some future she had foreseen that he was still blind to. She would not permit him the chance of life only for him to bring Babylon to its knees.

She would never let him kill her precious Prince of Persia.

There must be a reason.

Working his hand into a tight fist, he brings it down next to him with a low growl. Nearby, Azar pauses in her work and he imagines she must be looking at him with that funny quirk of her brow and her deep frown of annoyance. Another snarl breaks free past his teeth. It all makes no sense. The how and the why cannot possibly come together, not with Kaileena pulling the strings. She would know he was dangerous. She would know his goals.

"So why?" He hisses through gritted teeth, his mood souring further with each thought that passes. So many questions and he needs his answers. The time to act is upon him. He cannot stand idly by as his life slips through his fingertips. He will not go back to the border of life and death.

"Is everything alright?"

He turns his head, letting it fall gently to the side and his gaze settle on his hostess. She stands at the doorway, eyes filled with a mixture of worry and suspicion. Still though, she does nothing to point out his odd behavior.

"I am just," he pauses, biting onto the tip of his tongue as he watches her shift the weight on her feet back and forth, "getting antsy. All cooped up in here for so long."

Her gaze lingers, but she nods in acceptance. "Perhaps you are due for a stroll then. Your skin has healed up rather well and I suppose that as long as the sun is set—"

"Yes." He interrupts, jumping to his feet quickly before she can say anything more. "I would say I agree. Allow me to get reacquainted with the city."

She steps forward, her mouth opening to speak, but he quickly cuts her off, "The fresh air could do me wonders. It is as I said: I'm restless."

She frowns. Then comes a short nod, a silent acknowledgement of her understanding – or perhaps of her acceptance, though he does not really care which. Nothing more is said between them and instead she waves a hand in his direction, signaling for him to be on his way before turning back to her work. He responds in kind and sets out.

Towards the palace.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i)_ _Merikh is an Arabic name for the planet Mars, possibly meaning "death" or "slaughter." Azar's reasonings for the name are less to do with that literal meaning and due to the fact that she fully believes there is rage and a private war he is partaking in. Plus, she was running out of ideas._

 _ii) I am going to try and get these chapters edited more quickly, but I also want to be honest and say I am having trouble with mental health at the current moment. I am trying not too get too ahead of myself and start posting chapters too quickly. I have over 50% of this story written, but due to a huge amount of stress and family issues, I have been in a writer's block for some time. That being said, I'm not giving up on this story. As I said, I have over 50% written, it's just getting past this mental fog before I feel comfortable posting much more regularly._


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter TWs: Accidental Self Harm, Violence, Hand Injuries._

* * *

It almost seems foolish that he had thought breaching the palace walls would be a difficult task. He had even entertained the thought that he might be spotted by one of the guards before he was able to heave himself over the walls and yet, it simply was not so. To say he was surprised that his counterpart would make such a naive mistake though, even after all of his misadventures, would be an exaggeration. Sargon was simply too trusting, too confident.

He pauses.

Or perhaps the imbecile thought his personal guards were of better use protecting the rabble. How insulting, though completely to character. With Farah around, guiding his conscience like a trainer would its mutt, Sargon was likely to throw himself blindly into danger if it meant protecting his citizens. It is disgusting to think that they had once shared a mind and body.

Taking a deep breath, he lurches forward, catching onto one of the building's bricks and scrambling his feet upwards. With a sharp push, he springs back, sending himself flying upwards and catching himself on a nearby beam. He finds his body is still weak, and it takes much more effort than he is pleased to admit before he is able to pull himself upwards. So the process goes: jump, climb, jump, climb. His arms are sore, practically burning, by the time he clambers up one of the balconies.

"All of this and with my luck, there is probably no one guarding the front door!" With a huff of breath, he falls back, resting against the cool, brick wall and rubbing at his numbing palms.

He stays there, sitting on the marble floors and chest heaving as he catches his breath. Just beyond the doorway, he can see torches dimly lighting the familiar halls. Shadows creep back and forth as the flames flicker, dancing with the gusts of nighttime air that pour inside. He waits for the opportunity to move into the blackness before rising to his feet and dashing forward, allowing himself to be swallowed inside.

All at once, things grow much quieter. He can barely hear the wind now and the chaos of the city, which had only been a fraction of what it was during the daylight hours, seems to vanish within the royal halls. Occasionally he hears the squeaking of boots nearby, or the sounds of hushed words being spoken. He assumes what few guards his other half has kept nearby are making their nightly rounds and he slinks deeper into the darkness at the very notion.

He needs to move quickly. Before what luck he has runs out and he is found.

Moving forward he allows his – Sargon's—memories to guide him through the maze of hallways. The palace is just how he remembers. It seems an eternity ago that he had set foot within its walls. And perhaps it has been, he realizes. He shivers. His mission is still ongoing, he reasons, with a violent shake of the head. He does not have time to think on matters of his existence at the present. Another time perhaps.

Ahead, he hears the sounds of approaching footfalls. His blood runs cold and he circles in a panic, hissing out a whisper of "not now" before looking up and setting eyes on his savior. He moves quickly. Running forward, he sprints up the wall and digs his fingers into the hard edge of bricks before vaulting backwards and hooking his fingers around a metal support that rests above the floor. There he hangs.

His muscles burn as he pulls himself upward. It's been too long; he has fallen out of practice. He will need to remedy that.

Just as he pulls himself onto the support, his feet holding up his weight and his fingers grasping onto the cool surface so tightly that his knuckles turn white, a lone guard rounds the corner. The armored man does not stop though; being none the wiser to the threat that sits perched in the shadows above him, he continues on his way with a lengthy yawn. It takes all The Dark Prince has not to laugh.

Once he is sure the way ahead is clear, he drops down and lands almost silently on his hands and feet. He will need to move faster than this if he wants to make it to his prize before sunrise. The only problem being, he muses, that where it rests it lost to him.

"That is if it has not been destroyed." He says, talking to no one in particular. The very thought of his precious weapon being melted down for scraps makes his blood boil and the creeping feeling of panic begin to burn a hole into his chest. "No."

He moves forward, brushing off his clothing with sore fingertips.

"He is much to sentimental to destroy such a thing." He decides, looking up and glancing down the next hallways with a snicker. "Probably claims it to be a marker of his victory, perhaps even of our brotherhood."

As he makes his way towards his goal – for some part of him can sense he is going in the right direction—he mimics the royal, taking on a haughty voice and placing a hand firmly against his heart, "I want it kept nearby, so I might remember the wrongs of my past and continue to improve upon my actions. Make no mistake; I shall not forget this day, or this creature! For he was an enemy and ally, and for such he will be remembered.

"Ha! Pathetic." He stops, looking down the hall and towards the path that would lead him to the throne room. "Oh."

He stares at the imposing doorway with a tired expression, already knowing that yes, indeed Sargon would do such a thing. Where better to keep such a treasure than the throne he might sit upon to rule his kingdom? With a frustrated sigh, he lifts his hand from his chest to his face, sliding it up to rub his too tired eyes.

Surely, there will be guards on the other side and even with his physical skills, he doubts that he will be able to take on more than a few without any sort of proper weapon. Rushing in would only spell out his doom, be it death or imprisonment. Neither option sounds appealing.

He will have to find another way in it seems.

He turns, looking at his surroundings for a way inside and spots an opening within the wall's structure. One of the few markings of the battle that had taken place so long ago still present and now, it presented itself as his savior rather than the sign of their kingdom falling to ruin. It seemed luck was on his side after all. With quick, quiet steps he approaches the area, scaling towards the wall's wound. It only takes a moment before he is inside.

"Now, let me see." He whispers, standing upon the ruined stones with fingers resting against his chin. He surveys, letting his eyes sweep across the room with both purpose and curiosity. He is pleased to find not much has changed and that the royal heir has kept most everything as he remembers. That fact alone should make this so much easier.

The sounds of hushed voices meet his ears and he carefully toes towards the edge of his support, shifting his body forward and glancing down towards the source with a sour expression. Guards, as expected. Though these two seem more content to stand idly by and chitchat rather than do their sworn duties.

The demon finds he is almost disappointed. He had expected more of a rush when breaking into his sworn enemy's homestead, but instead he finds he is able to slink about like some unseen parasite, taking what he wants and feeding off of the scraps they foolishly leave scattered about for him. How silly that they refuse to clean up their mess – to weed out the weak and undeserving—and instead have allowed the great city to weaken its defenses. Have they learned nothing after their homes were destroyed, their families slaughtered, and their riches plundered?

Has his counterpart learned nothing?

He feels rage bubble forth, burning at his chest and threatening to spill forth from his lips at any moment. After all, did he not deserve this kingdom? He should be the one seated upon the throne, commanding the armies of the world's most powerful kingdom. Instead he has been cheated by some child, a naive whelp who has yet to learn the ways of the world. Kill or be killed, he says! Burn it all down and take what is left! Those who do not survive are not meant to live and serve! Yet what does he find? Sargon sitting by seeking peaceful solutions and ideals, more concerned with the state of his citizens than that of his empire. Under him, surely it will come falling down piece by piece.

Unless he sees to it that he takes back what is rightfully his that is. And he fully intends to do so. All he needs to do is take back his weapon and cut the false king down, put him on his knees before him and slice him apart until he is nothing more than a bloody smear across the stone floor. Or perhaps he will be more sentimental, as his counterpart has been. Perhaps he will tear his head from his shoulders and stick it on a pike – right next to his throne.

But now is not the time.

He has a mission – one that must be completed without raising the suspicions of his rival if possible. He forces a heavy breath through his nostrils, regaining his composure and watching his surroundings for only a moment longer before leaping forward onto an exposed beam. He hears muttering of what was that? and the scuffing of boot leather against the floor and he pulls himself up. He balances there, taking one careful step after the other, being sure as to not make any unnecessary movements, or more importantly noise. After some pointless searching, the foes beneath give up the patrol and return back to their idle chatter, suspicions once again lowered.

He continues forth, grateful with each creak of the wood he creeps upon that it does not shatter under his weight. Perhaps, he decides once he reaches his destination, he does have some luck on his side.

Glancing back towards the only threats present, he finds them still oblivious to his presence and he drops down from his perch above. His fingertips ache as he digs them into the stone pillar that rest beside his previous residence, slowly dropping one by one down its carved façade before coming to rest with a soft grunt upon the ground. The guards still take no notice of him. He might laugh at their incompetence if the whole thing did not infuriate him so. Instead a sharp exhale of air rushes through his nose and a deep frown etches itself onto his features.

Another moment and he might snap. As it is, allowing such failure to remain unpunished bothers him terribly, resting on his mind like an itch that he cannot scratch. His head begins to ache.

Cautiously, he steps towards the throne before him, looking back only once to see if he has been noticed, before setting a hand lightly upon the arm of the seat. As his hand runs down its polished surface he traces a finger through the stone as it rises and falls. His short time alive before had never granted him access to his rightful throne; it had been something of a dream, but decidedly not a dream all at once. Though he had never seen it with his own eyes or felt the cool stone beneath him as he lorded over a kingdom, he knew it to be a thing of reality. A thing he had experienced secondhand through the life of his other half. To experience it now, in the flesh, is what he has always deserved.

He continues his admiration for a while longer, in something of a trance as thoughts of victory and revenge course through his mind like water passing violently through rapids. The spell is only broken when, with some annoyance, his touch meets crumbling stone. Once more, he is reminded of the ruin the palace is still under and tears his hand away from the sight as if it has burned his flesh. He sneers, cursing the Vizier and his army silently and finally returns to the task at hand.

Moving quickly, he begins his search. To his rival's credit, he has not displayed the Daggertail like some trophy. Such a thing would be a mockery of its splendor and perhaps worse, it would be a mockery of his very character. If not displayed though, he wonders where the Prince of Persia would keep such a treasure. Something inside him screams that it is here, that the sentimental fool is just that predictable. Another part of him aches, though not with the anxiety that his intuition may be incorrect, but instead it aches with some unknown force that tells every fiber of his being that his weapon is fated to be there.

It is not until his third sweep of the area that he begins to wonder if his intuition has steered him in the wrong direction. No signs of his precious blade are to be found, no loose stones in the floor, no secret panels. The area seems void of anything and if he was not so busy trying to ignore the rapidly quickening pace of his heartbeat, he might congratulate his rival for his surprisingly pragmatic view of their past relationship.

Instead he leans forward, his mind overflowing with a plethora of thoughts as he tries to discern where the Daggertail could possibly be. The palace is a maze of rooms and hallways. The possibilities are almost endless. Shaking, both in anger and something akin to fear, he catches himself onto the left armrest of the throne.

It shifts. His breath catches in his throat.

Making sure to be as silent as possible, he gives the stone a small push. Again it moves beneath him. The stone should be solid, carved from a single stone; there should be nothing to shift beneath his weight.

Digging his fingers beneath the heavy stone, he pulls upwards and reveals a gaping hollow beneath the false top. Inside, sitting curled like some viper in the shadows, sits the gleaming metal spikes of his Daggertail. The relief that washes over him does nothing to calm the pace of his heart, rather it feels as if it has increases tenfold and it burns. It is as if he has gone deaf to the world around him and he swears that he can hear the blade whispering to him like a fervent lover for him to take it in his grasp. He does not hesitate to comply.

He sets the stone aside quickly and reaches into the darkness eagerly, tangling his hands into the mass of blades without fear. They dig into his flesh and he lets out a long hiss of pain as they break through the flesh in places and blood begins to flow across his skin like small rivers.

As he continues to gather up the slithering weapon, it dawns on him that he has begun to make too much noise. In his excitement, he has completely thrown his stealthy approach out the window. Shortly after this realization is when he notices the fast approaching sound of footsteps charging up the steps nearby.

He cannot be seen. Not willing to waste anymore time standing by like a fool, he uses the cloth sash that hangs loosely from his hips to hide his treasure safely away, protecting himself from any further damage it might cause and slinging it upon his back. There is no use standing by and killing these men, they will only alert the rest of the palace and perhaps Sargon himself, a risk he is not willing to take. So instead he runs forward, pushing his body up and back onto the same pillar he had entered in.

"You!" The shout of a guard startles him and he nearly loses his grip. "Stop right there!"

So much for not being seen.

He will have to be quick it seems. He doubts the guards have gotten a good look at him yet and it is impossible for them to have seen his face when he is already up so high. With great speed, he begins to mimic the same path he had entered in reverse, being careful not to let his nerves get the best of him when this small victory is so near. As he dashes forward and back through the hole above the large doorway, he can hear the guards struggling to push them open and continue their pursuit. It seems that his fantastic luck has worn out there though and more guards poor down the halls like a tidal wave, heading towards him with weapons drawn.

He has no time to fight them and his weapon is still not properly his own. He will have no time to risk going out the way he came in. As the guards run past him from below, he jumps forward and lands with a thud on the ground below in front of a window. The wounds in his hands sting furiously.

Behind him, he hears the sounds of a weapon being drawn and turns with impressive speed, grasping onto the blade of the sword in front of him with his bare hand before his enemy has a chance to swing. The metal bites into his flesh and it takes no more than a second before it has sliced into him, but he does not let go. With a rasping growl, he sends his foot forward, kicking into the guard's stomach and sending him falling backwards to the ground. The blade pulls itself free of his grasp and he lets out a cry like that of a feral animal.

In front of him, his vision begins to spin. He begins to feel nauseous. Taking only a moment to shake away the feeling and clear his vision, he propels himself through the open window and to freedom.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) I'm going to keep an ongoing and long story very short, but recently, I have been having major family issues that have lead to some pretty serious life changes. Alongside this, I just recently lost my dog, Lulu Belle. It's been an incredibly hard start to 2019 and has made writing a last priority in my mind. I'm trying to ease myself into it again though and finally got around to asking my friend to edit some chapters... so here we are! I hope you enjoyed and I'll try not to take as long with the next update._


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter TWs: Hand Injuries, Mild Sexual Jokes, Jokes Containing Animal Death_

* * *

Memories flash through his head like sparks, fleeting and sudden. Despite their brief visits, they leave their mark, burning into him so intensely that it feels like he is being torn apart. Somewhere outside of the noise that fills his head, he can hear the fussing of a familiar voice and too soft fingers touching his arm and willing him to hold still. The burning in his hands has not stopped though and while he recalls that this pain is far from the worst he has ever experienced, it seems to be far more intense than anything he can now recall.

This human body was not built for battle. In it he will surely fall.

The hands are on him again, tugging and grabbing.

He opens his eyes and lets a furious growl roar past his lips.

Azar does not pause in her work, if anything she seems to work faster. Beside her are all assortments of bottles and plants. She is spotted in blood, smears raking their way down her clothes and across her face. His blood, he reasons as he finally lowers his gaze to his injured hands. His right hand is littered with cuts, while his left bears a wound that feels far more gruesome than it probably actually is. It bleeds heavily regardless.

"What happened to you?" Azar snaps, rubbing some unknown liquid into the gash. He cannot tell if he is screaming, but when the stars fade from his eyes his chest heaves and his throat burns. She runs her hand through his hair in some vain attempt to calm him.

She does not press him for an answer, despite her tone, and while she works, he tries his best to come back to his senses. The memories are still flashing before him; bursts of images, while other details remain in the background like smoke.

He remembers running through the streets. Remembers hearing the palace guards sounding the alarm. He cannot remember how he found his way back here. He does not remember stumbling through the door, but he does recall tearing up the uneven floorboards and stashing away his prize. He does not recall how he made it to the bed and he most certainly does not recall Azar finding him in this sorry state.

She finally ties a bandage around his hand, wrapping it until no blood seeps through the white cloth. As the pain begins to ebb, his mind slowly begins to clear and he finds he is finally able to focus without the thoughts becoming a mess of webs. He hisses slightly when she pours another liquid over his other hand, "That hurts."

"Perhaps next time you will think before getting yourself into whatever mess caused this then." She sounds like a worried mother reprimanding an ill-behaved child. Another memory tugs at his mind: another face replaces hers, a different voice, and he is suddenly much smaller. He shakes his head sharply. They vanish. "Tell me. What happened?"

"I fell." He lies. He is tired and if he looks anything like he sounds, he is sure Azar is aware of this. "In my panic, I grabbed onto something. Must have been sharp."

It is a bad lie and when she locks eyes with him, he can see that she does not believe him. She has seen these wounds before; she knows the mark of a sword on flesh and the mark of a climbing mistake. He expects her to say something, to ask him where he has been and why he was attacked. She says nothing, only nods and says, "You were unconscious when I found you. Seems you had some foresight before doing so though. Your hand was already bound."

He hums. The pain is distant now. Not gone, but easily pushed aside and that allows for exhaustion to push forward.

"You fainted from the pain, not from blood loss." She sits back, wiping at a stain of blood on her cheek – it only spreads it about more. After a moment, she grabs a cloth and wipes it across her face and then her hands. "The next time I find you dying, I won't offer my services for free."

"Believe me," he mutters, one side of his face pressed against the mattress, "I am shocked that you are not holding out your hands for coin now."

She looks at him, eyes glaring, but lips betraying her amusement with a small smile. She moves forward, cloth still in hand, and begins to clean the blood from his skin. "I thought a man so lucky to be alive might be more grateful."

"Oh, I am grateful." He says, sucking in a breath when the feeling on the cool cloth presses against his cheek. "Grateful to my own abilities, that is. If you're going to go on about your theistic ideals—"

"I meant that you should be grateful to me. Though perhaps you should be more respectful to the Divine." She snaps – cutting him off with such irritation that he flinches back. He grunts when she scrubs some blood away more harshly than necessary. "If you did, you might not find yourself in these situations."

He reaches up and places his hand atop hers, disregarding the flair of pain that surges up his arms as the pressure digs the cloth into the still open wounds. She stops, glancing curiously at him until he curls his aching fingers around her small hands and guides them away from his flesh. "Must you do that?"

"Are you going to do it yourself?" She says, pushing him away and once more pressing the damp fabric to his face. She has questioned his distaste for water more than once and he has no desires to have this conversation again. When he says nothing, she continues, "I won't have a patient of mine getting an infection just because he is too stubborn to bathe."

He snorts, but says nothing to argue otherwise. After all, in a sense she is correct, though she has no idea the circumstances which bring about his stubbornness, making it more one born of survival than something simply from spite. He must admit, the smell of dried blood does get old after some time though and a small part of him appreciates her efforts despite that irritation.

"Where did you fall from?" Again, her eyes are filled with that knowledge that he idid not/i fall. There is something smug hidden in the edges of her question. It threatens to spill over, but she controls it until the only real evidence one can see is the way her golden brown eyes pierce into him. It makes his stomach churn.

"A rooftop." He answers. "What does it matter?"

She shrugs, finally moving away from him. "I am only curious."

"Keep your curiosities to yourself." He mutters as she grasps onto the handle of the bucket that rests on the table next to him. She responds by splashing some of the lukewarm substance onto his head with an irritated glare. He hisses and a shiver works its way down his back. Running a hand angrily through his white locks earns him nothing but a snicker from his hostess.

As she pads away, he regards her with something of annoyance, scrunching his face up in a manner similar to that of an angry child. Again, she responds with a snicker, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips and she drops to her knees and begins to scrub at the marks of blood that pattern the wooden floors. Affronted, he finds himself hoping the stains have already set in.

"I am glad you're alright."

Her words make him freeze and he finds that he has to repeat the phrase to himself several times just to be sure that he has understood her correctly. Her voice had been so quiet and filled with something he had never heard from her before, or at least he had never heard it with such sincerity. When he finally determines that he has indeed heard her right, all he is able to manage is a wary, "You are?"

"I am." She confirms. "Who else would do the cleaning for me if you had died?"

He rolls his eyes. "And I thought we might be having a moment."

She laughs and falls back slightly, taking a seat and resting her arms upon her knees. It fills the room so thoroughly that he is absolutely shocked she is capable of such sounds. When she finally stops, her chest still twitches with the threat of further merriment and it makes her voice shake as she speaks, "I am only joking!"

"Well then, at least be sure they are funny next time, won't you?" He says, fully intending to remove that silly look from her face, but if anything her grin widens. "Would you stop looking at me like that?"

"Oh, come now. I really am glad you're okay." She tilts her head towards him and once more begins to scrub. "And not just for cleaning."

A sharp snort of air bursts from his nose. "How noble of you."

"Oh fine. If it was such a terrible joke, then you tell me one." She says as she rolls her eyes in a dramatic fashion. "Don't look so surprised."

"Jokes are meant to have punch lines, you know." He chides, settling back against the thin cushions behind him. The tiniest bit of triumph fills his chest when she finds his words biting enough to scrunch her nose. Like his words have left a bad taste in her mouth. "What did the libido-driven wife say when her husband asked if they should eat or have sex?"

She frowns. "Are you always so boorish?"

"You wanted a joke and this is the first one that came to mind." He offers, a smooth smile working onto his face like silk. "Tell me, what did she say?"

Resigned to his ill-begotten manners, she leans back onto the palms of her hands once more. The sun that pours through the open window catches her irises, making them flash specks of yellows and oranges as they move slowly about the room. She is searching for answers, hoping to find them amongst her potions and dried plants, but they both know they will not offer what she seeks. Just as he begins to grow impatient, his fingertips tapping rhythmically against the flesh of his stomach, she admits her defeat, "What did she say?"

"You can choose, but there is nary a crumb in the house." He finishes and she groans, falling back onto the floor as she tosses the wet rag towards his face. He catches it and throws it back; it lands on her stomach with a wet plop and she brushes it off with an irritated jerk of her arm. "Don't be so dramatic. It wasn't so bad."

"It was awful." She says, shifting to rest on her elbows so that she can meet his gaze. "Did I laugh? No. Did I smile? No."

"Ah, but it got a reaction out of you regardless." He says, "If you ask me, it has done its intended job."

She laughs, lips quirking to one side in a manner that makes it very clear she is trying her hardest to keep the sound from escaping. When it does regardless, she lifts a hand of her mouth and clamps it firmly across her face, stifling the noise before it can further betray her amusement. He laughs at her expense, "So terrible admitting that I'm right?"

She rolls her eyes.

At that, they fall back into silence, though the air between them suddenly seems just a bit less tense. He finds himself watching her as she moves back to her duties cleaning up his mess from the previous night. A strange surge of emotions fills the pit of his stomach and he digs his nails into the point of origin, willing away the strange thing like a persistent insect. It does nothing to suppress it, only added pain to the strange feeling – it sat there like a stone, unmoving as the river's rapids rush furiously past it.

"Thank you." The words left a sour taste on his tongue, though the feeling in his stomach seemed to ebb slightly when she turned back to him, eyes soft and brow furrowed. "Don't make me say it again. I find it hard enough to admit you saved my life once before."

"You are welcome, Merikh."

The feeling dissipates and he nods, thankful to her for not boasting about his momentary weakness, or commenting about his strange behavior. He is more thankful that the strange thing is gone altogether, much preferring to never experience it again altogether and even more so preferring to never utter such a sincere acknowledgement to another living creature. He decides to blame his wounds on the whole ordeal and lays back down, hissing slightly as the skin around the gashes in his hands shift with him.

Signaled by his mutters of distress, Azar once more moves to his side, taking the bandaged appendages in her petite grasp and examining them carefully. Strangely, her cool touch alleviates some of the pain, easing the heat that had come with the surge of agony. He swallows and attempts to pull his hands from her hold, but she only tightens her embrace.

"Must you do that?" He says, his usual biting tone hushed and a strange tightness in his throat. "I am fine."

"I am only making sure." She replies, finally taking a seat on the cot. The straw beneath the cloth cracks and shifts with her, only stopping when she stills herself. "A man wishes to teach his donkey to stop chewing on things. To do so, he stops giving him food—"

"What are you going on about?" He cuts her off, but she only glares at him in response.

"Let me finish." She snaps. "To do so, he stops giving him food and later the donkey dies of hunger. The man, distraught, says, 'What a disaster! Just when I teach him not to chew, he goes and dies on me!'"

He frowns, narrowing his eyes and watching her with a baffled expression, "Was that a _joke_? That was worse than mine!"

"I thought you might like it." She says, releasing her hold on him. "And it distracted you long enough for me to do my work."

"That wasn't a joke. It was a travesty." He objects, slowly flexing his stiff fingers. Azar slaps at the back of his hand lightly to stop him and he laughs at her annoyance. "Fine, fine. You win. Though my joke was funnier."

She is grinning now, snickers pushing through her fingers as she presses them again to her lips. "Your joke was vulgar! Honestly, do you always speak so boldly in front of women?"

"I imagine you would be offended if I didn't." He shrugs, finding he cannot push back his own smile. Her laughter stops when he says that, but from behind the wall of her hands, he can still see the smile stretched across her features. She likes that, he realizes, his stomach once more feeling the drop of a stone as he realizes this conversation has become so _amiable_. It is a strange and sudden feeling, one that comes with the realization that he is _enjoying_ the girl's normally unwelcome company. "Don't get used to this though. I'm still as stubbornly impolite as always."

She tilts her head from side to side, lips pursed in thought before she concedes, "Now, we couldn't have it any other way. Could we?"

A knock answers her, rasping three times at the wooden door across the room. Azar stands, leaving him with his spiraling thought as he tries to assess exactly what has just occurred between them. Pleasantries have thus far been reserved for deception in his short existence and the whole thing leaves him confused in ways he has not been since he first began to stir within the darkness of Sargon's mind. He does not like it.

Mind still spinning, he is only half aware of Azar sliding the bolt of the door free from its latch, allowing the door to open and the hot breeze of the afternoon air to pour through the opening, drenching his body in sticky, unpleasant heat that seems to make the burning in his hands return.

Sneering, he turns to meet the gaze of whoever has unwittingly caused him such discomfort, only to find that the person in question stands out of the path of his gaze, obscuring their identity from him. Instead, all he sees is Azar's back and he takes note of the way her shoulders have tensed and the way her rich, brown flesh has become spotted with goose bumps.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he carefully pushes himself up off the mattress, ignoring the protest from his wounded flesh. Alerted to his movement, she turns back to glance at him. Something in her gaze tells him that something is very wrong. Almost as if she can hear his thoughts, she steps aside – making room for the stranger outside to step past her and into the room.

His heart sinks as the figure finally steps into view, and then begins to rapidly speed up. He feels as if he is going to be ill.

Before him stands none other than the former Prince of Persia, back straight with confidence only royalty can afford and blue eyes dark with something he cannot identify. He resists the urge to run, telling himself that this has nothing to do with him. This is only coincidence. He has no reason to panic.

The look Azar is giving him from behind the royal tells him otherwise.

Taking a step forward, boots scraping above the very floor that hides the demon's precious stolen treasure, Sargon lets a hand fall to the hilt of his sword.

"I think we need to talk."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) The sources of the jokes told are from Andy Simmons's in the April 2016 copy of Reader's Digest, 'What's the Actual 'Oldest' Joke in the Book?', and 'Roman Social History: A Sourcebook' by Tim G. Parkin and Arther John._

 _ii) I had the question of why Farah and the Prince do not appear more often in this story and if they will in the future. The answer is that they will be in the story more/Farah will be a major character, but this story is not their story. This story focuses on The Dark Prince and Azar, though there is going to be a found family element between Merikh, Sargon, and Farah. Again though, this is not their story - it's Merikh's. I do plan to write stories about my favorite prince and princess in the future, but it's just a heads up about this story in particular._


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter TWs: Hand Injuries, Imprisonment, Abuse of Power_

* * *

Eyes fixated on him like a predator, the former Prince of Persia stands tall before him; it feels as if he has been plunged into the depths of the sea and his lungs burn with such ferocity that it feels as if a hole has been ripped through his chest. It is embarrassing. Appearing so weak in front of his greatest rival, in front of a man who has been given everything that he does not deserve. It makes the aching of his lungs twist into him more and he finds that when he is finally able to take a breath, it is one that is nearly a gasp. His counterpart, on the other hand, indicates no discomfort on his part.

Either Sargon does not sense the true identity of the creature before him, or he has made the decision for his suspicions to go unspoken. For his own part, The Dark Prince does nothing to garner any possible further suspicion, but the idea that he is being toyed with infuriates him.

"A visit from the Prince of Persia himself." Risking a glance downwards, he rests his eyes upon the floor beneath the royal's feet. If he focuses, he imagines that he can see the glint of silvery steel shining in the beams of light that pour through the open window. Slowly, he returns his line of sight to the man before him and finishes, "What have I done to earn such an honor?"

His counterpart's gaze does not shift from him, not once. If anything, now that the demon has acknowledged him, he seems more focused. His next words come slowly, as if he has carefully considered each syllable before speaking, "Most men would be alarmed if I appeared in their doorways without a proper greeting."

"I am not most men." The Dark Prince replies. "Were you hoping to frighten me, your highness? Do many kings wish to instill fear in their subjects, or is that a trait specific to only you?"

Sargon's fingers tighten around the hilt of the sword that rests at his side – his father's sword. "Your name. What is it?"

"Merikh." He answers, glancing towards Azar coolly. Her mouth opens slightly as their eyes meet, as if she has something she needs to say, but cannot form the words. He wonders what the royal has told her. He has his suspicions. Suspicions that are only fueled by the sheer amounts of anxiety that seems to ooze from her person. "My name is Merikh."

"Merikh," Sargon says the word as though he is weighing it against something, as though it is a piece of gold that simply does not sit right on the scale, "how were you injured?"

"A climbing accident." He fibs, casting the man in front of him a sharp grin. "Foolish mistake on my part, as I'm sure the lovely healer would agree."

Behind his counterpart, Azar's eyes darken. Her hands grip into her arms and he swears he is almost able to hear her heartbeat from across the space between them. She says nothing to dispute his claim.

"Nasty wound for a fall." Sargon offers, slowly moving forward and around him, circling. The movements added to his predatory gaze and he slowly spins to meet him, rotating slowly as they attempt to size one another up. The demon considers making a dash for his weapon momentarily, but casts the idea aside when he realizes that even with it in his possession he has no way to use it for the time being. Thus the strange dance continues.

"You've come here for a purpose," He begins, his feet still sliding against the smooth surface beneath him and with every rotation he catches a glimpse of his hostess's perplexed expression, "so tell me, what is it you're really here for?"

The monarch stops – one boot still placed mid-step in front of him. "I have reason to believe you have something of mine."

"Something of yours?" He casts a knowing glance once more to the floor before turning to Azar and thrusting an arm in the direction of her newest guest. "He calls me a thief!"

When Azar makes no move to remark on the statement, he turns back to his counterpart with a wide grin. "And what reason have you?"

"Shall I name only one? Or would you like to hear the descriptions each of my men gave me?" Sargon says and when The Dark Prince slides a foot back and away, he is able to sense the triumph the man before him feels. It sickens him. "A peculiar stranger they say. A ghost of white hair and, as one man claims, eyes pale as ice."

He says nothing, only tightens his hands into fists – beneath the bandages, his flesh burns – and the Prince continues, "They almost mistook him for a devil. That is, until they made him bleed."

Motioning to his injured hands, the heir of Persia casts him a knowing gaze and all he is able to do in turn is twist his hands behind him in response. The room falls silent, or perhaps the blood pounding in his ears only makes it seem to be so. Once more it feels as if he has been pushed under a strong current and his lungs begin to burn. Things are not going as planned.

"Coincidence." He finally chokes out. "You think me guilty based on nothing more than the words of a few frightened men. They couldn't possibly be sure of what they saw."

"I might entertain your claim had you not been seen by several of my men." Pausing, the royal motions forward to the girl behind him. "Or if Azar had not told me that she was positive your wounds were not caused by a simple fall."

Scowling, the demon angles his body towards the girl. She still says nothing.

"If you expect me to confess to the crime then you will be disappointed. You still have no real proof." He walks back, boots scraping against the wood with each step, until he comes to rest just above his prize. "Go on, search for your hidden gem. I assure you, it will not be found."

The man before him only smiles, looking something like a father dissatisfied by their offspring's behavior, much to his irritation. He is almost astonished when the next words to leave his counterpart's tongue are not the scolding, but rather those of smug acceptance. "I would not expect anything less. Finding it is not what I am worried about though. Keep it if you must."

"iWhat?/i" Taken aback, he has to fight to gather his composure once more. He clears his throat, "And I certainly would. If I had whatever it is you seek. I'm starting to feel that our discussion is doomed to go in circles."

"You may be correct in your assumption that my evidence against you is not absolute," Sargon pauses, placing two fingers firmly between his lips and blows. The harsh whistling that flows through him makes the demon cringe and he takes a small step backwards as if to avoid some unseen force. From behind him he can hear the footfalls of several people entering the small room. His stomach drops. "But it is enough to keep you under my watch until further notice."

He turns quickly, the faces of several guards greeting him as he does. They mimic their commander's pose, one hand placed upon their swords as they watch him while they wait for further orders. He snarls at them, reveling in the way they tighten their grips upon their weapons and how their shoulders lock into place, tense with fear. "You are arresting me? You have no grounds to—"

"Be silent!" The royal's order reverberates through him with such intensity that he finds he is at a loss for words. "I am the heir to this Empire's throne and you will do as I command. My word is law and thus it holds more sway than yours."

The Dark Prince swears he can feel his blood rushing through his veins as his anger causes his pulse to pound against his skin like waves crashing upon the ocean. They continue to gaze at one another for a minute longer and still, he can see something behind The Prince's gaze that makes his stomach churn. When he continues, his voice is once more slow, as if he is unsure the demon understands, "Is that clear?"

He says nothing, refusing to give Sargon the pleasure of any sort of victory over him. The guards step forward in response, grasping onto his wounded appendages with none-to-gentle touches, digging their fingers into the bandages as if he has made an attempt at their lives – today. The pain flairs, coursing through him so intensely that he can see stars and he makes an attempt to tear himself free, winding about violently and using the heels of his feet to dig into their boots. It only causes his wounds to ache more.

He hears shouting. Azar screams something at him.

Finally, he is able to slip one arm out from their grasp and moves forward, wrapping his fingers about one of their throats. With clumsy movements, he uses the added weight to free himself further and brings the man down the ground, pressing his fingers deeper into the soft flesh and growling, "Can you fools not see I am an injured man?"

He is about to tear his fingers into the man's skin when the feeling of cool metal meets his own flesh. He shifts his gaze to the side, catching a glimpse of the Persian Prince and that is all the information he needs to determine that the King's Sword is at his throat. It takes everything in him not to move and risk slicing himself open. The beating of his heart has reached his ears.

"Let him go." The Prince says – voice mixed with both fury and wariness. Not wanting to risk his newly given life, the creature does as he has been ordered, slowly moving off of the man beneath him, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. As he comes to his feet, the other guards once more move to meet him and this time he does nothing when their hands dig into his still tender wounds. He hisses and Sargon slowly lowers the shining blade, though it does not return to its place at his side. A silent threat of what is to come should he attempt to struggle again. "Take him to his cell."

The guards move, pushing him forward with violent jerks of his arms.

"Wait!"

They pause, glancing at their commander who in turn has his gaze upon the speaker. Twisting his head slightly, The Dark Prince is able to catch Azar's gaze. Her eyes are narrowed, confusion evident as she stares at him. Her mouth is open slightly and she has stepped forward towards his captors, one hand out slightly as if she has made some move to stop them. Relaxing slightly, she turns back to the royal and shakes her head, "You cannot arrest him."

"What?" Both men say in unison, shock evident in both of their voices. Azar glances at him again, her eyes narrowed as if she is willing him to stay silent. He decides to oblige her.

"Merikh has been wounded. That is clear enough." She motions to him and tilts her head in a funny manner, as if she is not sure the words are clear to the men around her. "What is more clear is that they are still much too fresh for him to be without a healer nearby. Arresting him would only lead to infection and at worst, it would lead to his death."

The Prince glances towards him, considering the girl's words.

"He has done nothing to warrant such punishment." She reasons and he almost laughs. Though, he must say he admires the girl's cunning. To use the man's own needless desire for fairness against him, it is almost too delicious.

Sargon counters, "He attacked my men."

"They paid no mind to his injuries. He is clearly in pain and you are surprised he lashed out at them?"

"And what do you suggest, Azar?"

She shifts, moving her weight from foot to foot as if she does not favor the answer she is about to give. "He stays with me. After all, I have thus far been the one to provide him with the medical care he needs. I know what he needs better than anyone present in the palace will."

"You expect me to leave you alone with him?" Sargon balks, his nose scrunching up as if she has just suggested something most foul. "He is dangerous."

"Then keep your men posted at my home." She suggests, once more motioning towards the guards. "They will offer me their protection and he will not be able to escape unnoticed. Then, once he has healed, arrest him."

The Prince glances at him now, eyes unsure and none to willing to take orders from the woman before him. "You will permit us to search you home then, I should hope. Might we find what was stolen? Once and for all prove his guilt."

She nods and with a heavy sigh, one that pours through his nostrils forcefully, the royal raises a hand. With a quick motion, the order is given and he is set free. He yanks back from their grasps and steps back, his eyes lighting up with both ire and amusement as they hold his gaze fearfully. "What? No apology? No groveling for forgiveness at my feet? And I thought you might have better manners."

Sargon's lips tighten, but he says nothing further to suggest that the words have dug their way into him. Instead he only turns and motions for his guards to follow, stopping at the door as they march into the daylight. "Have him ready soon. I won't wait longer than a week. Surely we can agree on that much, Azar."

She bows, her hair tumbling from behind her and obscuring her face from them. The Dark Prince glares at his counterpart in turn. Without another word, the Prince steps through the threshold and vanishes, leaving the two alone once more. The tension in him slowly dissipates and Azar lets free a breath he was not aware she had been holding. The anxiety is still not truly eased.

"He knows nothing." He mutters, a strange feeling pooling into his stomach as he glances towards his hostess. "He had no right to accuse me of such a crime."

Her eyes narrow, the golden flecks dancing in the sunlight that still pools through the open doorway. "Did you do it?"

He does not answer her and she scoffs, moving forward and grasping onto the door with a small hand. He carefully steps back, resting the weight of his body against her worktable and watching with mild interest as she pulls the thing closed and latches it to prevent further intrusions. He waits, expecting her to speak. Perhaps expecting her to shout at him, to call him a thief or a rat. She does none of those things and only keeps her back to him as if to hide from his prying eyes. He dislikes that.

"I will not defend you again." She threatens, slamming the windows shut with her next movement. "Have I done something to offend you? Have I caused you harm in some way?"

He opens his mouth to speak, but she raises a hand to stop him. "No. Say nothing. I do not want to hear anymore of your lies.

"Know that I have given you my services for free, out of the kindness of my heart. You, in turn, have done little to earn your keep." She continues, voice edged finely like the blade of a sword. "Risk your reputation, by all means, but I have done nothing to warrant being dragged down with you."

He feels a strange tightness in the pit of his stomach and glares in her direction, hoping that she can feel the weight of his gaze upon her back. Their amiable mood from earlier in the day has all but been forgotten and he finds himself cursing her for the betrayal at the hands of his other half. Beneath the bandages, his wounds begin to burn once again. He clenches his fists despite himself.

"I did not ask for your kindness and as such I owe you nothing." She turns to him, as if to counter his claims, and he snarls, "Consider this a lesson, girl. Your too soft heart will only cause you to ache."

The strange feeling in his stomach returns, this time more sharp than before. It is as if a knife has been dragged across his stomach and causing his innards to escape him violently. He does his best to ignore it and Azar's eyes, which had before still held their strange softness, suddenly harden. The gold flecks seem to become dull and she storms from the room without another word. The banging of a door signals to him that she has vanished elsewhere into the building and then there is only silence.

Left alone, he continues to watch the spot she had stood at only moments before and the ache of his stomach grows worse as the seconds drag on. Despite her absence, the air is still thick and his nerves have not calmed any more. He fears that he will not be able to move against the force, but finally he wills himself to step forward. It takes him too long before he finally crashes his body against the cot he had been seated on only a short time before. Its softness does not ease the aching in his body.

Somewhere he thinks he can hear Azar's sniffling and notes that for all his unkind gestures, he has never heard her cry before this moment. He digs his fingers into the fabric that rests beneath him, trying to find some way to silence the sound within him, but instead he finds nothing – a strange emptiness that he cannot explain and that causes his head to pound so furiously he fears that his skull may split in two.

Sleep does not come easy that night.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) Alright! I know I said this would come sooner, but I kept putting it off. I'm having some serious trouble with a later chapter and that always makes me worried to post. I decided that I want to post regardless though - so thanks for reading! Next chapter (hopefully) soon!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter TWs: Hand Injuries, Imprisonment_

* * *

The next week drags on slowly, reminding him of the times he had seen time come to a near standstill during the past adventures of his other half. The fact that he still moves about unhindered adds to the illusion and he is only sure that no such thing has happened due to the fact that no one about this city seems to be affected by the feeling, physically or otherwise.

The feeling is perhaps aided by the fact that, despite the illusion of freedom, he has all but become a prisoner in Azar's home. At the orders of their monarch, guards had been posted at all possible exits shortly after the unexpected visit earlier in the week, making escape of any sort all but impossible for the demon. He was fully expected to waste away within the stone-walls until his official arrest could be made, allowing the men to cart him off to prison. Despite his refusal to admit it, even to himself, he was very aware of the dread that had nestled into the back of his mind, eating away at him bit-by-bit as the week slowly, but surely, came to a close. It was almost maddening.

He had tried early on to leave and escape somewhere into the desert until a time he might be better prepared to attack his rival, but the escape had only ended with him being met with the faces of several guards. He had been lucky at the time that they had not taken notice to the pack which had held his most treasured possession, but even that consolation had not done much to ease the uncomfortable feelings in his mind.

To make matters worse, the girl had not spoken to him since their argument. Any distraction she might have offered him had gone unspoken and he rarely saw her anymore, only in the mornings and late in the nights. Twice a day she changed his bandages and rubbed strange salves and potions into his wounds. He had tried several times to goad her into speaking, but each time she only worked faster and tied the wrappings a bit tighter. He might have been impressed with her resolve, had he not been on the receiving end of her stubbornness.

Outside of these brief meetings, she remained a ghost. He might catch glimpses of her as she left for trips into the city, or walked about to grab supplies, but never more than seconds and never long enough for him to say anything. He did not care, he told himself, though somewhere deep within him, he knew that her silence only added to his nerves. Nerves that were already on fire from the thought that in only a short time, at the rise of the next sun, he would be at the mercy of the palace guards.

"Are you really going to keep this up?" He questions when he next sees her. She pauses briefly before returning to her task of cleaning his wounds, but despite her continued silence that follows he considers the brief pause a sign that he is slowly making progress. "This silence must be eating away at you. And you are stuck with me for the time being, why make the situation we find ourselves in worse with these inane actions?"

She tugs on the bandage around his palm and he shouts, yanking his wounded hand away from her grip and growling. When he casts his gaze upon her, eyes narrowed and alight with something terrible, she only raises a brow and frowns. He rubs the flesh around the fabric gently, willing away the sharp sensations that cause it to spark angrily.

As he continues to sooth his tender flesh, she stands – moving away from him with posture that he can only think adds to her clear glee at his discomfort. "It was not meant as an insult, you know? You are being too sensitive."

She sits once more upon the nearby table. She has not left the room. Again, he decides, this is progress.

He waits for her to speak. To say anything really, but there is only the muffled chaos of the world outside her thin walls to fill his ears. Beneath her, the wooden supports creek quietly as she shifts her weight upon them. She does not speak, even when he feels that his eyes have burrowed into her far longer than most would be comfortable with. She is waiting, for what he does not know, but he can see it written all about her: her posture sitting tall and proud, the way her hands tap almost inaudibly against the surface beneath them, and the scowl of her eyebrows. Through it all, she still says nothing.

"If you're just going to sit there saying nothing, you might as well go." He snaps, pressing his back into the warm stone behind him. "You are wasting my time."

"You are quite terrible at apologies. Might want to start over."

Unwilling to admit his shock, even to himself, he tries to ignore the flair of pain in his right shoulder as it hits the wall behind him when his body reflexively moves back. Instead, he simply hisses and reaches back, pressing his fingers into the area and narrowing his eyes in her direction. "Apologize? For what?"

She laughs. It is nothing like the laugh he had heard from her so fleetingly just before his house arrest. Instead this one is sour, sounding like her tongue has rested upon something foul that she is desperately trying to rid herself of. As the sound finishes, short as it is, she speaks slowly, "Would you like the short or long list, Merikh?"

He frowns.

"No preference?" She rages, pushing herself forward and taking small steps towards him with each word that passes from her lips. "You have insulted me. Lied to me. Taken my kindness towards you for granted and then wasted my healings as though they were only a cheap token that could be easily replaced."

He shifts, his shoulders scraping against the wall behind him. The stone suddenly feels much cooler, as if his body is burning up. Tempted to inspect the sudden change in temperature as he is, he does not allow himself to break their gaze.

"You may not be a kind man, Merikh. You may be a thief, or perhaps even a devil that walks the earth. But even a devil knows when one should pay their dues." She continues, taking one last step forward until her knees brush against the wooden frame of his cot. "I have saved your life. You would be wise to show some respect."

He can feel his jaw tightening, almost like a vice, and he has to force air through his lungs. He resists the desire to spring up and pounce at her like some sort of animal. He wants her to stop, but his voice is quieter than he would like, "I did not ask for your help."

"Perhaps not." She agrees, leaning forward slightly and causing the serpentine braid of her hair to jump forward like a startled animal. "But I know that you do not want to die and it is for that reason alone you should be thanking me."

He casts his eyes downwards.

"Ungrateful rat."

The words chill him as if she has the power to freeze the world over with them alone. A spike of pain seemingly unrelated to his injuries stabs at his spine and a wave crashes down upon him, taking the air from his lungs. He moves to retort, to snap back and break her, but before he is given the chance she vanishes through the open doorway. He is left, listening to the sounds of her footfalls upon the wooden stairs that lead to rooms left unexplored above him. Then silence returns.

When night falls upon the city and she does not return at her normal time, he begins to wonder if she has decided to leave him to tend to himself. The wounds – mostly healed, but still tender – beg for attention, for the soothing creams and potions that woman above him so perfectly administered, and it is not long before he can feel the aches pouring into his head. It is all he can do to fall back and hope that the chill of the desert air will give him some form of comfort.

The burning of his mind mixes unpleasantly with the pool that sits in his stomach, churning about like waves upon rocks. It is something so unknown, so abnormal, that if he had not become acquainted with the many guises that death bore he might mistake this for the unwelcome entity. A part of him, one desperate for the strange surge of feelings to just end, wonders if that might be more welcome. He is thankful that he finds no will to answer, preferring to not agree one way or the other, but the fact that he is left to toss and turn about the thin mattress does little to comfort him regardless.

Just as he has resigned to his fate for the night, a smooth hand rests itself upon his face. The flesh is cool and he is embarrassed to realize that the touch is welcome if it means any sort of relief. Opening his eyes, one and than the other, he is greeted by what appears to be a shadow in the darkness of the room, but its soft touch tells him it is none other than his hostess, come for her nightly duties.

"You should have said something." Her voice is quiet, as if the darkness around them is the one whispering in his ear. The touch of her hands feels like silk against his pounding head. In response, a groan works its way up his throat, pushing past his gritted teeth until she pulls away in something akin to fright.

As his eyes finally adjust to streams of moonlight that sneak through the cracks in the widow's wooden shutters, he can see the way her eyes have focused on him. He grunts out, "I half-expected you to let me wither about in my own discomfort."

"I am not a monster."

"But you are a fool."

If his words have offended her – again—she does not make it known to him. He wonders if that is because she has seen the truth in his words. Despite the softness in her eyes, no part of her becomes exposed to him. It is almost as if she is a ghost, both present and decidedly not. An enigma that he tries to pretend he is not eager to solve. As she continues to help him, the man who she should by now recognize as a potential enemy, he is curious how long she is willing to play these parts.

When she is finished with the wrappings he takes the silence as an opportunity to flex his hands gently, marveling in the way her strange remedies help to ease the pain that had migrated into his skull. He expects that to be the end, for her to take leave and leave him to the suffocating isolation once again. Instead, she settles, the straw beneath them snapping beneath the added weight, and rests her head against the wall behind her. He watches her from his position on his back, the muscles of his shoulders aching in strange ways that cause him to rise up upon them on occasion, and wonders about her change in behavior.

Though it is not unwelcome, he realizes as tensions in his mind are slowly put to ease by the presence of another figure.

He prefers not to be in the dark alone.

Forgotten.

"How are you feeling?" She says, but he does not hear her. Rather, he hears, but the voice and face that the words call to his mind belong to another entirely. When she quirks a brow at him, barely noticeable in the shadows, he realizes that he must be staring.

Hesitantly, he replies, "I am not sure."

She continues with her funny look, examining him like some strange ailment that she has yet to understand. It is a look that speaks of curiosity more than it does confusion, but if she has questions she keeps them to herself.

He is confused, perhaps tired even. The body he is in suffers greatly for all the feats he puts it through and his mind, strong as it is, has yet to become accustomed to such things. With these strange physical weaknesses have come other more unusual things as well. The feelings of dread and defeat that settle with other less distinguishable things in the pit of his stomach, all things unknown to him before. Things he had only recognized within his weaker, more human, half. Things that his mind had been free of in his true and stronger form.

These things are the marks of mortality and he wants to be rid of them. Wants to cleanse himself and return to his rightful body, he wants to feel the burning heat that soothes him and makes his thoughts clear and precise. That grants him the skills and agility to strike with deadly precision.

"My head pounds as if armies have waged war within it." He mutters.

She hums, "Perhaps they have."

"Oh?" With a snort of laughter, his head falls back against the cushions behind him. "No such thing can happen."

Not when one is alone in one's body anyway, he muses. Otherwise he might agree.

"I think it can." Her words make him think of a child, but her voice holds the power of one much wiser than that. "We wage wars within ourselves throughout our lives. It is how we grow – how we change."

Again, he is drawn back to a different memory, "People never change."

He can feel her eyes on him, burrowing into him and searching for answers. Like her, he is an enigma and one he will not allow her to solve at that. When she has finished with her thoughts, she pushes herself to her feet, the bare skin of them padding along the ground almost without sound. He thinks that to be the end of the conversation, unnervingly thankful that she has chosen to speak with him at all that night, and waits to hear the sound of her returning to her quarters in the rooms above. When the sounds of her footfalls stop at the door though, he furrows his brow in confusion and turns to look at her.

"If you truly believe that, then it is not I who is the fool, Merikh."

The door shuts, the stairs creak, and then she is gone. He breathes.

Her words repeat within him, adding to the growing pool of unpleasantness that threatens to completely fill him. If he does not keep it in check, he fears that this weak form will crack and they will begin to leak out from within him. His body is tense and the aching seems to return. He does not sleep.

The night ends, his freedom along with it, and daylight creeps closer. Like sharp claws and teeth on a rabid beast, its rays make their way into his eyes, burning and scratching until he is forced to screw them shut. He sits there. Waiting. Listening. Desperately trying to think of an escape, a clever plan, anything that will free him from the fate of once more being locked away by the Prince of Persia.

Anything that will keep him from that suffocating isolation.

He finds no answer and when the knocking begins at the thin, wooden door that separates him from the palace guards, the cracks begin. Rage first pours out and when the men make their way inside, shackles ready, he thinks to fight. Attempt to kill them, to tear them apart and bash their skulls into the ground, and make some grand escape. Perhaps to tear the Daggertail from its resting place and tear them apart into bloody piles of viscera. Revenge would not come easy though if he were to preform such a feat. The man whose head he desires would hunt him to the ends of the earth for such crimes.

More rational, he decides, thrusting his arms forward with a sickening smile. He must be more rational. He must wait. Despite the dread in his stomach, he must wait.

The men stumble back at his eagerness and he laughs, a wild thing that makes them put their hands upon their swords in fright. Their fear fuels him, pushing him to restrain against his more violent temptations. To think rationally until he can ensure his prize can be won.

"Go on then." He taunts. "I haven't got all day."

His mind sparks, as if lightening is coursing though his veins.

The cracks widen and he forces them shut again.

Finally, one brave soul steps forward and latches the metal to his wrists. To his amusement, it seems to shock the others out of their panicked trance and they step forward to grab him, tugging upon his arms harshly and forcing him onto the city streets. A crowd has gathered, whispering their rumors and lies to one another, their trust in the stranger having already been so little that he is sure they have invented only the most glorious tales.

He wonders, briefly, if Azar is watching from the doorway.

As he is dragged towards the palace walls, he readies himself. Scours his mind for possibilities. Imagines how he might once more gain the upper hand against the enemy. Mortal or not, there is something on his side. Whoever has brought him back has done so for a purpose, he reasons, and he does not intend to let their gracious gift go to waste.

Indeed, for now Sargon may see his victory laid before him, but the battle is far from over and it is patience that will win the war.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) Thank you so much to everyone leaving kudos and/or reviews where I post this. The messages I've gotten about this story mean so much to me, as it's been a work in progress for years now. I've always wanted to write this story since I beat the game in 2005, but now that I'm older, I finally feel I have the skill to tell the story I wanted to then. So really, thank you all because your support and kind words give me a huge push to continue with this tale!_


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter TWs: Starvation, Purging, Imprisonment, Abuse of Power_

* * *

He has lost track of the days.

His cell, deep beneath the palace, remains isolated from the world above – his only company being that of the other of Babylon's more dangerous criminals. Their shouts tinged with something more than simple spite, brimming over with clues that suggest to him that what men they used to be have long vanished within the darkness that surrounds them. Occasionally, the skittering of a rat against the cold floors, or a guard patrolling the halls breaks up these familiar noises. He welcomes both.

Food comes rarely. Only delivered when the palace guards make their patrols, many of which are skipped in favor of gambling and other pointless activities. Regardless, their duties remain forgotten and the men in their charge are left to wither away until someone is forced to make sure they have not starved to death in the wake of their neglect. For him, the rats make fine substitutes.

When the patrols are made, it brings welcomes light. Though it burns his eyes, forcing them to adjust so quickly that his head feels as if it will burst, it is still welcome. It is during these rare moments, when the guards toss him his rations haphazardly (for they do not dare to come near), that he is able to take in his surroundings and gather his wits about him. It keeps him from losing purpose.

His cell it small. Barely fit for one man. The walls are bare, simple stone, which has been carved in a manner that suggests little time had been spent on the room. Juts of rock poke out, digging into his flesh and making it all but impossible for him to rest his tired body against them. The floor is only marginally better, with bits of ruined straw tossed to one corner in something of a mock sleeping area. It smells of piss and vomit, another duty neglected by those meant to care for the men below. It is miserable quarters, but he manages.

What time he does not spend searching for escape he spends counting, a vein attempt to keep track of time that seems to never pass beneath the sun's gaze. It starts after what he believe is the second day, it soothes him. Keeps him grounded to the present and helps him to ignore what feels like the weight of oceans crushing down upon him in the air. He stops only to sleep and eat, and when he loses track, he continues, starting where he believes to have left off. Doing his best to keep going.

He reaches six hundred three thousand, nine hundred twenty-six when the flickering fires of his most long-awaited guest come to welcome him to this strange home.

The walls are digging into his back, streams of what can only be blood trickling from the holes they carve into his flesh, and the next words rest at the tip of his tongue (six hundred three thousand, nine hundred thirty-five) when the familiar face steps forward from the darkness. The snapping flames highlight the contours of the hardened face, casting shadows that only do more to emphasize the toll that so many years of hardships have had on his former partner. As if they can hear the beating of his heart, the embers jumping forward into the air before settling and drifting slowly down.

"How kind of you to visit." He croaks, tongue still dry from the lack of water he has been provided. "Forgive me. I haven't had the chance to tidy up."

Sargon says nothing, but his eyes watch the man with interest, gleaming with that same strange look he had given when they had first encountered one another on the streets of the city. Stepping forward, the royal places the source of their light into the sconce that rests near the metal barriers of his cell. In response, The Dark Prince shields his eyes; face contorting in pain as the light further fills his small room.

"Are you hungry?" The Prince questions, slowly coming to rest on the ground – grimacing slightly as the weight upon his knees presses into the stone. They mirror one another now and the demon might laugh if he were not otherwise distracted (six hundred three thousand, nine hundred sixty-seven). "Eat."

He tosses something forward and it lands with a mild _twack_ upon the ground in front of him. He is hesitant, not willing to take his eyes off of the man before him as he reaches forward and snatches the object with shaking fingers - a brown sack. The strings tangle about his hands and he growls before tearing it open, eager to retrieve whatever treasures rest inside. His heart soars when several small apples roll onto the ground from the shredded fabric and he greedily takes two into his grasp before biting down into the green flesh.

"Tell me," the Prince begins, voice edged with something close to disgust by the desperate, animal-like eating before him, "why have you come to Babylon?"

Taking another bite of the crisp fruit, the demon responds, "It is my home."

"I have never seen you here before."

"And you know every face in the city, I suppose?" He sneers, spitting a few seeds aside. Again, Sargon scrunches his face in disgust and the demon bites into the core in response, as if to taunt the royal. "Surely you have more questions?"

As he finishes the first apple, he quickly brings the next to his lips. Sinking his jaws into the skin, he takes another desperate bite (six hundred three thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine). As the juices flow from the wound and onto his skin, he wipes at the offending liquid with a grime-covered arm, smearing streaks of dirt across his deep, brownish-red flesh.

"What is your name?" Sargon says slowly, the words are weighed and that is his sign that there is something more to this visit than first appearances would suggest.

"You already know that one." He says, asserting the fact more quickly than necessary. "Merikh. I have no other name."

They both go quiet. The shadows created by the torch dancing about the dark space like the most skilled of dancers. It would be intoxicating if the threat of being swallowed up again into the darkness at any moment were not a very real possibility. Nearby, the howling of the other prisoners' resumes, their desperation becoming more apparent as the light flutters so close by. If their cries are heard, the man in front of him does not make it apparent and the Dark Prince cannot help but wonder what crimes they have committed to earn such little regard.

"What you stole," the Prince begins, his hand gripping onto something out of view, "it was worth nothing. Perhaps a few pieces of silver, but nothing to risk your life as you did."

When he does not answer, the man continues, "But you did not take it for the coin."

"I have already told you, whatever it is you believe me to have stolen is not in my possession." The lie sounds convincing enough, but the look still does not leave Sargon's eyes (six hundred thirty-one thousand, forty). There is something he is not being told, something that has been made clear to his enemy in the time he has been locked away. "If you are only here to ask me questions you already know the answers to, then leave. I have no more time for this nonsense."

He settles back into the darkness of his cell. Defiant, even as the jagged edges of the stone wall dig further into his flesh and cause more blood to pour out onto the filth covered floor. Shortly after this, he hears the sounds of boots scuffing against the ground, easily identifying that his guest has risen to his feet. He expects to hear the sounds of footfalls fading into the distance, but instead all he senses is eyes boring into him. Watching and sending a shiver up his aching spine.

He finds himself wishing for Azar's strange remedies.

When several more moments of uncomfortable silence go by and the feeling does not pass, he lets his gaze fall forward and onto the royal that still stands, tall and proud, before him. He hisses, "I told you, I have nothing more to say."

Sargon remains tightlipped, his features barely giving the dark entity a hint of what is going on in his head. He hates it. Not knowing what this man is thinking (six hundred thirty-one thousand, sixty-two). Again, he snaps, "Out with it."

Raising his arm, the Prince reveals the object that had remained hidden from his sight until this moment. The Daggertail rests between the man's fingers, tearing into the thin cloth that surrounds it as if to bite into its captor and escape. The fire catches it, sending glares of light in his direction, as if to taunt him that his most precious treasure has been taken into the hands of his enemy – again. With a snarl, the royal tosses the weapon to the floor, the sounds of the metal hitting stone echoing through the blackened halls. Be it to anger him further, he does not know, but regardless of the intent, his blood boils.

"This proves nothing, only that you—"

"I am done with your lies." Sargon interrupts, stepping forward until his face is shadowed once more from the light that flickers nearby. His features have become indistinguishable within the thick blackness, save his eyes, which sometimes flicker with light as the flames continue to dance. "I am not as foolish as you seem to think, _Merikh_."

"Oh, no." He jumps to his feet, striding towards his counterpart with bared teeth and hot rage coursing through his veins. His hands shoot forward and grip onto the iron rods that keep him trapped within (six hundred thirty-one thousand, eighty-four). It is all he can do not to seize the man by his throat. "Your foolishness is incomprehensible, even to one such as myself! If anything, I give you too much credit."

The royal's eyes bore into him, two storms settling on him like a ship caught on the ocean. He snarls and shakes at the barrier between them, but to his displeasure, Sargon remains steady. Despite his anger, The Dark Prince manages to hold himself from attacking, though with each passing second the shaking in his body grows stronger. Willing him to move and be done with the whole mess.

Victory, seemingly, is so close. All he would have to do is reach out and take his throat in his hand. It could be done. Conquest would be his! After all this time, damned are the consequences! Revenge is so near.

"You are a resilient parasite. Even without the Sands, you have refused to simply die." The Prince barks, shocking him from the ire-induced trance. "Credit where credit is due."

The demon smiles wide and wild. His lips crack and he swears there is a tinge of blood that trickles upon his tongue as he speaks, "How generous of you, oh mighty Prince."

"Though I must admit, I did expect better." He adds, stepping back and throwing his arms wide, "I am still here! Standing before you and you noticed nothing!"

His chest heaves and the blood pumping through his veins feels like molten rock; it is a wonderful thing (six hundred thirty-one thousand, one hundred twelve). He wants more. Like a drug, he _needs_ more. From his position, one that is only but steps away, Sargon watches him with bewilderment. As if he has just witnessed a most heinous crime, or an act against the Divine himself. The contrast between them is beautiful and the demon wonders if the thrill is there for the royal too; buried deep beneath his façade of integrity.

"Must you look so shocked?" He spits, words of vitriol poisoning the air around them (six hundred thirty-one thousand, one hundred twenty). "There is no point of hiding it anymore. You've found me out! Or would you like me to congratulate you? A pat on the back maybe?"

Somewhere down the dark halls, the screaming of the other inmates seems to grow louder and he can hear blood rushing in his ears. With a cautious step, his guest takes a step back. His boots step over the metal whip carefully before leaning over to gather the weapon once more in the rags it had previously rested in. The flames dance across its silvery flesh, glistening like stars and his heart aches as its beauty is smothered once more.

There is something that screams triumph clumsily hidden within the eyes of his counterpart and it is not until words echo forth from his lips that the creature is pulled back to their reality, "If there is no point in secrets, then you can afford to grant me some answers."

A pause; as if he is waiting for his darker half to protest, but nothing comes (six hundred thirty-one thousand, one hundred fifty-eight).

"How did you survive?" Sargon asks, voice calm, but the spark of wrath still resting deep within his gaze. "I left you to die. And for two years, we have witnessed nothing to signal your return. With no Sands—"

"Oh? You haven't figured it out yet?" He lies coolly. "Really, why would I share such information? I do expect you to know better by now."

The Prince's eyes narrow, annoyance evident in his entire body, "Play your games if you wish, but know that if any harm come to my people because of you, I will see to it that you are punished for your crimes."

"Because that worked so well for you last time, did it not?" The dark creature mocks, pressing his fingers towards his heart as if to once more remind his other half that he was alive and well. "You cannot cut me down like your other enemies."

Sargon's lips tighten slightly before he carefully speaks, "This time you are no simple spirit. You are mortal and if your stay with Azar suggest anything, you are more than capable of meeting your end by my father's sword."

He frowns, the hair of his neck standing on end as a shiver works its way down his spine. Sargon may not be the smart one, but he is correct. For the time being, he is mortal and there is absolutely nothing he can do to remedy that fact. Until he can find the source of the power that has once more given him life, he will need to do everything in his power to stay alive. Time, after all, is no longer at his command.

"What an astute observation." He mutters, his hands tightening into fists.

They continue to observe each other for some time. Sargon trying to find the answers to his questions – the many hundreds upon hundreds that there are – while the entity before him tries to determine the best way to go about survival. Both of them know that they will not find the answers they seek within the other.

When it becomes glaringly obvious that they both have nothing further to say to the other, Sargon turns to leave, taking pause only to remove his source of light and once more plunge the demon into darkness (six hundred thirty-one thousand, one hundred eighty-three). It is only when his footsteps have moved down the hall some way that the royal calls back to his prisoner, "I'll return once you are ready to tell me what I need to know."

Far off, he hears the sound of a door being slammed shut and once more he is left alone. Save for the desperate yells that come from the others trapped beneath the palace above. When he is sure that his guest will find no reason to return for the time being, he falls to the ground, his body shaking and breath labored. Everything aches. His stomach churns and he feels as if the small bit of food that he had been provided is about to work its way up and out his throat. It burns and he gags, choking it back as his eyes water and his nerves begin to get the best of him.

Six hundred thirty-one thousand, two hundred forty-two.

No. That's not right, he realizes, slowly bringing himself up onto his elbows and straining to think of where it is exactly he left off. Nothing comes. The numbers are jumbled together and his mind swirls back and forth with thoughts that have become to difficult to distinguish from each other. When the burning in his throat returns, this time he is unable to hold it back.

With pained chokes, he purges himself of the few bits of food that he had been granted and is only able to fail to choke back more when a disgusting _splat_ echoes through the thick blackness. Eventually, the foul liquid comes less frequently until it stops all together and he is left with a hollow ache in his stomach. And the sharp pains of hunger return.

His body slowly returns to some sense of calm and he is able to gather himself up into a corner and rest. The jagged stones of the wall somehow seem sharper now, not just cutting now. Instead they seem to pierce his flesh and burn wherever they touch. With a heavy sigh, he wipes at his face. Vomit and drool stretch from his skin and onto his hand, sticking between his fingers and to his palm in a most disgusting manner. He curses and wipes himself clean.

For now, there is little to do but wait. He is sure that time is on his side and if there is any more information to be found, it will come to light soon enough. Perhaps even by the hands of Sargon himself. Even trapped once more in the darkness by the man, he is sure that he will find salvation soon enough. After all, he always has.

With a dark laugh, he begins, "One..."


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter TWs: Starvation, Verbal Abuse, Mentions of Execution_

* * *

In the days that follow the confrontation between the royal and his darker half, little comes to pass. Thick blackness is still the norm, only broken up now by the fact that meals seem to come more regularly. He suspects the guards have been reprimanded for their slacking, or perhaps these are new men entirely. He cannot be sure. And yet, despite the fact that his stomach aches with hunger, he still eats very little and only when he is at his most desperate. The meals, he suspects, are at the orders of his counterpart to keep him alive for questioning, but some distant part of him whispers about poison and death. He trusts nothing in this place. Not when he knows that his disguise has become nothing but scraps hanging from his body. What little it does now to pretend when the one person who he most desires to be hidden from knows the truth.

He still waits, wondering when whatever forces have granted him life will see to grant him freedom as well. For he knows that he is not safe here. Soon enough, the executioner will come to guide him off. He is sure some part of Sargon – a part that resided within both of them, should the royal admit it or not – would love to watch as he was devoured from the outside in by hungry insects. Something could not be more suitable for your most hated enemy, he supposes, and had he any respect for the man he might compliment his hypothetical glee at the situation. As it is though, he is rather keen to the idea of staying alive, intact, and not residing in the stomachs of several hundred pests.

Not to mention he would much rather stay _away_ from any water if entirely possible.

Escape, at least without the help of his unknown ally, seems impossible. He has tried to dig his way out, only to find that the stone walls had no give and the rough brick floors, covered with dirt as they were, are solid. Digging is out of the question, his ruined and bloody nails were a testament to that, and no tools resided within the darkness for which he might hack his way out. Everything he had tried was met with about as much success until he is forced to admit defeat and settle once more back into his strange routine of counting, relieving himself, sleeping, and eating.

When the day comes that he awakens to light, he is more than ready to fight his way to freedom. He is not quite ready to die and while his plans have not gone as expected, he thinks that he still deserves some chance. Surely he has not been brought back for amusement and whatever ally he has must know that he would escape the situation sometime soon. Instead though, he finds not a man who might lead him to a torturous death, but the small figure of a woman.

She looks up when he crept forward, the flames highlighting the reddish-blue hues of her russet, reddish-brown skin. He pauses, raising a brow before finally taking a final step forward, out of the thick blackness and into the light of fire. She smiles, it is strained and cold, but still there even when she speaks, "I was beginning to wonder when you might wake up."

"Yes, well," he begins, his throat aching as if it has been drowning in the dry sands of the desert, and comes to sit in front of her behind the metal bars, "I find myself without much else to do. And it passes the time well."

Azar nods, but he wonders if she can really understand the itch that has slowly begun to eat away at his brain. So little to do, locked away, and it has begun to finish him off in a manner all its own. Her company is a welcome change, even when he briefly imagines his hands around her throat. Punishment for her loyalty to his other half is more than deserved, he thinks.

"What are you doing here?" The words come out harsher than intended, still fueled by the anger that rests in him, waiting to set her aflame.

She remains still, the light flashing across her eyes so harshly that he briefly thinks them to have become pools of orange instead of their deep golds. He sees something within her, something she is weighing out and he knows that she houses a secret, but when she speaks it is not what he expects, "They thought I might get you to talk."

He scoffs, "Why would I tell you anymore than I have offered them?"

"I told them the same." She is fiddling with something in her pockets and he casts his gaze towards the movement. Quickly taking notice of how his attention has been drawn, she pulls her knees up, as if she is blocking out some monster in the night. "They wonder if you might slip, but I thought I might see to it how you are faring."

When he laughs, she continues, "Even I have heard tales of how miserable the prisons can be."

"Spare me." He snaps, leaning forward to that he might get a better look into her own gaze. "Let us be done pretending. Surely they have told you what I really am. No, do not try to deny it. I can see the fear in your eyes."

Again, she tightens her hold upon her legs. Her eyes have narrowed, the same fierceness he has become familiar with still hiding behind them, despite the caution that now is evident in her posture. If she has something to say though, she says nothing, simply waits for him to continue and he is more than eager to oblige, "Why are you really here, little spark? You are not big enough to start a fire by yourself, or have you forgotten?"

Steadfast, her eyes remain locked to his, "Even the smallest of sparks can start the roar of a thousand fires."

A smile creeps onto his cracked lips and he finds that laughter once more spills from him, filling the hall until the cries of those that have also been trapped beneath have all but been drowned out. Azar watches the spectacle, frown forming and eyebrows furrowed in a way that speaks volumes about the discomfort he has filled her with. He cannot help but wonder what it is she sees when her eyes fall upon him; after all, he must be a sight to behold. The lack of food and water, the isolation even, has slowly begun to work its way under his skin and he swears if he keeps his eyes fixed upon a single spot he can see the parasites squirming. It makes him want to peel away at his flesh until he is sure he can find charcoal flesh hidden somewhere beneath. He resists.

"You're right though." She says once the laughter has finally begun to die in his throat and his sides ache not just with hunger alone. "I do have a purpose here. One that even Sargon remains blind to."

He briefly lets the idea that he had been right when he had jested about her being a witch cross his mind. She had been the one to save him from the arms of Death after all, the one who had provided him with shelter and food. It all seems so convenient. Perfect even. It is there that he decides the idea is preposterous and waves a hand in her direction, willing her to continue.

"Someone asked me to give you something." The movement of her fingers within the pocket halt and he imagines that he can see them gripping onto some unseen object. "As such, I thought it appropriate to come and see you. The Maharaj Kumari saw to it that I was permitted to see you."

"One of Farah's many weaknesses, you will find. She is much too soft." He sneers, voice spilling over with distaste at the mere mention of the princess, "It makes her all the easier to break."

There is a halt in her breathing. Her chest stops moving and it looks as if something has been caught in her throat. He enjoys it, savors the way her nose wrinkles with distaste and how her eyes sharpen, sticking into his flesh like daggers, "You speak ill of a woman who has granted you kindness."

"And that surprises you?"

Her jaw tightens and she swallows something back, finding words he is sure are much more pleasant than the things she truly wishes to speak, "No. I suppose not."

Above them, the fire snaps. Embers burst forth from the torch, casting strange shadows upon the walls before finally settling upon the cold stone beneath, their short lives brought to an end within moments. Azar's eyes fall upon them, mouth slightly ajar as if to speak, but nothing comes. She contemplates, the thing in her pocket still resting within her hands. He lets out a small hum, once more catching her attention, before rolling his shoulders back and grinning, "What do you have for me then? Come, let us have a look."

She frowns, a small huff of air working its way past her lips as her body tenses. The fabric of her pants scratches softly against her skin as she tugs her hand free of its hold, her fingers tightly woven around the object that had moments ago been hidden from sight. He moves towards her, fingers clasping around the barrier between them as he attempts to get a better look at the object. He can see very little, but from the gaps between each digit a soft golden glow emanates and he feels his heart beginning to race. Her eyes stay on him, a perturbed expression hardening her soft features as she brings the object into full view. The Medallion of Time rests in her hand, like an old friend long forgotten within the shifting sands, as if no harm had ever befallen the priceless artifact.

"What is it?" She asks, voice quiet as the trinket's golden chain dangled from between her fingertips.

"A fine gift." He mutters, reaching towards the ornament greedily. She shifts, tearing her hands free from his reach at the last possible moment. Her eyes are wide, as if she has come to fully understand that the object holds the key to his freedom and power, though he suspects she has only just begun to understand such things. "Give it to me then. As you said, it was a gift for me."

She shakes her head, voice taking on a commanding tone as she repeats, " _What is it_?"

All at once, it is as if his senses have gone wild. He feels an ache, as if his mind has been filled to the brim with lava. It burns to his very core, threatening to burn him alive as the fury overtakes him, "None of your concern, you wench! Now hand it over before I take it."

Once more, he thrusts his hand through the bars, stretching his fingers towards her in an attempt to grab onto the artifact. She remains out of his reach. With a frustrated roar, he tries to lunge at her, slamming his body into his cage like a wild animal and screaming insults. She returns them with a look of disgust, clutching onto the Medallion tighter despite his efforts remaining futile. Only when his shoulders are battered, bruised from the force with which he has thrusted them into the metal, does he fall back. His chest heaves, lungs aching and eyes on fire, while she remains unmoving. He wonders how fast her heart is beating beneath the flesh of her chest.

"Fine." He says, massaging the wounded flesh of his shoulders. "You see it fit to keep it from me, then so be it. It will be mine sooner or later."

He grins, lips cocking to one side of his face and eyes alight, when he notices a chill work its way down her spine. She tries to hide it, to remain unmoving, but her body is quick to betray her. It is a small victory.

"I must ask," he begins, rolling the bones of his upper back and listening to the satisfying crack, "Why even come if you had no intentions to complete the transaction? Why waste your time?"

Her fingers begin to trace of the crescent moon inlay that adorns the smooth metal within her hands. If it distracts her, it does not make itself known when she speaks, "It proves that it is important."

"I could be lying."

"Even you are not so talented."

A smile, "Ouch."

She stands and he quickly joins her, fully intent to get more information about his strange benefactor from her before their time together comes to an end. She steps forward, only slightly, but it allows the flames to bathe her face in complete light. Her eyes are clear now and he can see the anger that sits within them. There is something else too, something foreign that he does not understand, but he dismisses it when she says, "I did not see their face."

"I'm impressed." He answers, voice sincere. "I had not even bothered to ask the question yet and here you stand with an answer."

Her lips curve into a frown, "Then you do not know them?"

"I'll keep that my little secret." He whispers, leaning forward so that his brow is pressed against the cool metal between them. Quickly, he raises a hand; bringing it to his lips he twists his fingers to the side: a mock representation of a key locking something away. Her jaw tightens and arms lock into place, it is only when she releases a long breath that any semblance of ease returns to her posture. Her eyes remain hard.

Within the suffocating darkness of the passage, a door unlocks. A click echoes to them, traveling down the winding path until finally meeting their ears. She turns, face cast with shadows as the light falls from her. It enhances her features, he thinks, makes the worry seep from inside her and encase her form like a cocoon. It is a delectable sight and he once more finds himself grinning at her like a rabid dog.

Her chest begins to rise and fall faster with each breath. Feet scraping against the stone, she turns to him. There is confidence in her. It sits on her surface, but it is nearly burned out by the anxiety that so obviously rests deep within. There is hope, as little as it is, that in her panic she might slip up. Step too close to his prison so that he can snatch her. Steal away what she has hidden and make his escape. She is not so clumsy and when she notices the gleam in his eyes and the look upon his face, she steps back.

"If I have what you need," she gloats, "then it will never be yours."

Tapping his finger against the bars between them, he says, "One way or another, what is meant to be mine will be mine. You should be frightened."

"I told you, I am no stranger to defending myself." Her lips form into a thin line, the frown vanishing into a mask that he is unable to read. Just as when they first met, his eyes are drawn to the scar that trails down the right side of her face. He finds himself wondering just how she got such a thing and what had happened to the creature that had caused it. "Continue on with your empty threats if it pleases you, but I will not be intimidated by a monster that can barely stand upon his own two feet. I will kill you if I must."

"Try if you must, little spark." He mocks. "But even in the state that I am now, I would tear you apart."

A pause in her breath marks the fear that courses through her. He tilts his head from side to side, forehead scraping against the bars as he does so. A predator with its prey, he thinks, knowing that if he could free himself she would pay for her transgressions. She seems to sense his aggravation, pressing herself back into the wall and brow creasing. The footsteps are closer now, but despite this, she does not move to greet them.

"Go then. Run to safety." He steps back, legs shaking and tired. He is growing weaker and his stomach cries out painfully for something to fill the hollow cavity is has become. Despite her anger, concern falls upon her face and he cannot help but laugh at her pathetic compassion. "Know that the next time we meet I will be taking back what you stole from me today."

She finally steps away, thin legs carrying her towards the sound in the distance. He waits, expecting her to fade and to leave him to his solitude, but instead she quickly turns back, hand taking hold of the torch and freeing it from its place upon the wall. Darkness floods his cell again. It weighs upon him so suddenly that he falls to the ground, legs finally having had enough. It aches, tearing into him and choking the life from him excruciatingly slowly. He glares, sending daggers into her flesh with his gaze and reveling in the way her breath catches in her own throat. He hopes, even with what little surrounds her, it has begun to choke the life from her as well.

"Until next time, Azar." He calls after her, resting his head back against the stone wall as she finally starts off towards the palace guards with quick, wide steps. "And thank you. Your visit has been most enlightening!"

When her footfalls finally fade, it is only because they have mingled in with the sound of concerned questions and half answers. He can hear the fright that rests in her voice, even from where he rests and it sends waves of something like pleasure through him. Finally, the sound stops, ending with a short _bang_ as a door is slammed closed and he is once more left alone.

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) Scaphism was an alleged method of execution in ancient Persia. It involved placing the prisoner between two boats, then feeding and covering them with milk and honey. This would cause the victim to have uncontrollable bowel movements, this combined with the festering mixture on their skin, would attract insects and other vermin which would devour them alive. It means "to hollow." The truth is that we actually do not have a very credible source to this form of death and it may just be fiction. I thought it was a suitable fear of death for Merikh being that it involves one of his worst fears: water._

 _ii) "Maharaja." Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 2 Mar. 2018, en. wiki/Maharaja. Source used for Farah's official title._


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter TWs: Starvation, Abuse of Power_

* * *

Beneath Babylon, time seems to have come to a standstill. There is no rising sun in the mornings, no heat warming his back and fingertips as he awakens from slumber. Instead, each day (or at least what he thinks is a new day) he is greeted by the weight of pure darkness, so thick that he is unable to see anything, even his own hands in front of his face. The only indication of time passing is the numbers that he counts, but even he knows that it is an unreliable method. For that, he thinks he might be forgiven for knowing no more than that at least a month has passed since his imprisonment.

And he is still alive.

He is shocked, to say the least.

The Prince of Persia seems fit to visit several times, scowl upon his face and brow creased. The same questions are always asked, sometimes more furiously than the time before, but each time the royal receives the same answers. Once or twice, his counterpart threatens to run him through, to end his miserable life where he stands, but each time no good comes of it. The man leaves, shoulders stiff and hands in fists, and returns within a week to interrogate him again. It has become something of a ritual. Something that drains The Dark Prince, forces the rage that has settled into his stomach to burst forth until he is nearly empty of everything. He does not look forward to the feeling, not when he is already straddling the line between this world and the next.

The interrogations slowly become his only source of contact with the outside world. Guards make their rounds less frequently and with their absence the meals he had cautiously eaten come to a halt. His stomach hurts worse than before, as if a wild animal has nested inside of him and begun to claw at his organs. Only during Sargon's infrequent visits is bread and nearly rotten fruit tossed in his direction. He is too desperate to deny the food; he finds the thought of poison no longer concerns him and it is an unimaginable torture.

Today is no different and the two men, creatures that had once been together as a whole, sit. One observes, while the other devours. He can only imagine what a sight he is to behold: hair a long and tangled mess, nails grown out like claws that dig into the meal he has been granted like ripping into flesh. He feels rabid, like something less than what he truly is and by the look upon his counterparts face, he wagers that he is not alone in the thought.

"Tell me," he begins, tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf with his teeth, "why is it I am still alive?"

Sargon's arms are crossed upon his chest, his legs resting before him in a manner that reminds them both of how tired he had been during the seven years he had been hunted by the Dahāka. He _is_ tired, the weight of his adventures having finally caught up with him and it is easy for anyone to see, not just the demon. It is a small comfort to know that his mere presence has brought upon such a feeling within the man.

"I thought my questions would have made that perfectly clear." The Prince answers. His voice is quiet, as if he had been on the verge of falling asleep within the dark halls, but they both know that he is not foolish enough to do such a thing when alone with his enemy. "I was hoping for answers."

"And each time you ask the same questions." He says, mouth full. "If you know what I shall answer, then perhaps you should realize you are not asking the right ones."

Sargon sits up now, pulling his feet towards him and causing his boots to scrape against the stone floor, "I have grown bored of these games."

"Well, I'm surprised seeing as how you have hardly been participating." He begins to lick his fingers, savoring each crumb as if it were a feast alone. "How I have returned is not what concerns you."

A snort signals his counterpart's amusement. "Oh, and I suppose you would know what does and does not concern me better than I?"

"I _am_ you." He snaps. "How many times must I repeat myself before you realize? I am not some demon come to possess you. I am not a fiend hidden under your bed. Your memories are my own, your blood flows within me. Anything you can find within yourself can be found within me."

Sargon scowls, eyebrows twitching slightly as his brow creases. "That is not true. I know it is not."

"Then you believe as a child does."

The Prince seems to ignore him, though he can see how the waves of tiredness once more crash upon him. His limbs relax more, the tenseness of his muscles slowly dissipating as the seconds drag on. An idea is forming, something that the demon cannot read and he waits with surprising patience for the man to speak what has filled his mind, "I know compassion."

"You know guilt." He counters, disgust bubbling up inside of him with such fury he worries that he might spill the contents of his stomach on the ground. "I told you before, did I not? Farah has clouded your mind. You have lost sight of what is truly important because you wish to prove to her that you are selfless. That in itself is a selfish goal."

Something snaps. Like a cord drawn too tightly between to opposing forces, it breaks and it shifts beneath the skin of the royal so quickly that the demon can hardly see it at all. Patience gone, the royal moves forward, teeth bared and gleaming in the firelight like the fangs of a beast, "You know nothing. You certainly do not know me, nor do you know my motives."

The air between them feels thin. At any moment, it could be sliced through, with no force to push back an assault – a threat that feels imminent as the royal's blue gaze locks onto him. He steps back. Only slightly, enough to put a safe distance between the silvery sword on his enemies belt and his own flesh, but not enough to signal that he believe himself defeated. The stand like that for several more moments, waiting for something of normalcy to return between them, before Sargon speaks again, "You are nothing more than a monster; a selfish spirit that could not possibly begin to understand the complexity of humanity. You feel only anger – hated for the things you could not possibility understand. It is pathetic."

There is a pressure in his chest, something he finds hard to explain; a familiar feeling, like the same uncomfortable weight that had plagued him during his final week within Azar's home. It is uncomfortable, resting both on him, but also within him. It makes his stomach churn uncomfortably and his mind begins to ache. When he speaks, the words sound wrong, like he has been pushed under crashing waves and the noise above him has been muffled by the storm above, "If I do not know you, then you must not pretend to know me."

He waits, expecting an answer. Something filled with biting words and insults, something to make him angry, provoke him to attack. Perhaps to trick him into spilling his mind's contents to his enemy. Nothing comes.

There is a darkness that falls within the eyes of the royal surely, but nothing comes from it. It is quickly cast aside, gaze replaced with something else, something that mixes with the exhaustion well and makes the warrior's muscles once more ease from the tension their conversation has created. The demon finds himself both perplexed and dissatisfied with the result, wishing that the entire situation would simply come to an end rather than drag on with him locked away once more until the Prince's next visit.

It is then that he realizes that the tiredness is not specific to the royal alone. He too feels the weight of their seven years on the run from an unstoppable beast. He too feels the weight of failure that had dug its way into their flesh. He shares in both their victory and defeat. He has waged a war within the streets of this city, taken life as he saw fit. Though he would not like to admit it, he has even saved these people from their deaths under a man who thought himself a god only to be repaid with the weight of darkness closing in on him and the emptiness of death. How could it not weigh on him? How could he not feel grains of sand gathering upon his back, burying him beneath a vast desert of time beneath his feet?

He is tired. They share that, both understanding and yet fighting to be set apart, to take over the other with the feeling until one is left drowning beneath the weight of it all. For now, Sargon has the upper hand.

"Do you mean to kill me then?" He asks. "Be done with it. I too tire of these games."

That noble gaze once more worms its way into his counterpart, locking up his muscles until he is standing straight and proud. He looks the picture of a perfect ruler: a sickening thought that makes him snarl with displeasure. Sargon ignores him, moving his hand from his sword in some gesture of peace, "Soon, but not now. Know that your time indeed draws closer, but when I leave you to be taken to the gates of Hell once more, I will do so properly. I will take no chances."

"How kind of you." He mocks, scrunching his nose as he bares his teeth at the man before him, forcing back a roar like that of a wild creature. "Remind me to thank you properly in the future for your courteous gift."

"You won't have to wait long, I promise you." Sargon says, turning from him and gathering up the torch that has temporarily chased away the darkness. As he does, the shadows that threaten to overtake the demon dart back between the gaps of the cell. Their fingers claw into the stone beneath his feet and move towards him with alarming speed, only coming to a halt at the very tips of his toes. The Dark Prince can feel his heart beating in his chest; he can hear the pounding in his ears – like a drum in his head. It threatens to make its way up his throat and fall to the ground.

It feels pathetic. The burden of his mortality clings to him like a frightened child seeking the comfort of its mother. He wants to banish it, to become something great once more. Trapped as he is, even with time at a seeming standstill, he knows that his chance is slipping away.

"I thought you wanted answers?" He questions, rolling his shoulders until he can hear his bones begin to crack. It eases some of the tension in him, as if breaking free from a mold that has kept his limbs from moving freely for years. "I'm no good to you dead."

"Answers or not, you are no good to me alive either."

Without warning, the royal steps back, striding down the hall and towards the exit. The shadows take their chance and jump, overtaking him until he feels as if he is suffocating. Their icy fingers dig their way into his skin, sinking their claws into his lungs until all he can do is fall to the ground and crawl like a child towards the safety of the one of the room's tight corners. There he can at least gain hold of his senses – orient himself so that he is no longer overwhelmed by the presence of _nothing_.

"Until next time then." He finally croaks, calling after the man. There is a pause, brief but telling, before a door slams and he is left with a small feeling of accomplishment mixed with the strange anxieties that have nearly overwhelmed him.

Settling in, against the sharp stones that prod at him and cut into his flesh, it feels safer. More alive than it would had he continued to reside in the open like a wounded beast. Or perhaps, he thinks, the isolation and hunger has begun to take its toll on him. His mind is no longer clear, that much he knows; his thoughts muddle together, coming into and out of focus rapidly. He knows that he is losing sight of his goals, that with each passing second he is wasting away and more primal instincts are taking over to ensure that he somehow survives this abyss of hell he has become a resident of.

He cannot die. He will not die.

He refuses to die.

"One." He begins, the ritual's comfort easing the foreign tightness in his chest some. He counts, sitting there in the corner while his skull taps rhythmically against the wall behind him. It aches; aches in ways that leave his ears ringing, while chasing away all thoughts of shadows slithering in the dark like snakes.

He falls asleep before he has reached five hundred.

The fires of Babylon do not greet him like he expects; there is no sound of distant screaming, or searing heat blistering his skin. Instead he is greeted only by stillness, silent as death and so bright that he has to shield his eyes as it shifts around him. He expects the calmness to come as a comfort when compared to the unrelenting nightmares he has been plagued with for the near entirety of his newfound existence. Instead he finds that it is anything but. Rather, it is something profoundly new and unwelcome. It makes the hairs on his neck stand straight as a shiver of uncertainty works its way down the flesh of his back. He does not disregard this strangeness though; experience has taught him better. There is something to be found here and he intends to discover its purpose before returning once more to the waking world.

The noise that greets his first step forward is something reminiscent of ice shattering beneath the weight of someone walking upon it. It cracks; he can feel the tail of damage working its way through the surface, but sees nothing. No signs of damage trail beneath him, even as he can feel the ground shifting beneath his feet. It catches him off guard, threatens to topple him and send him into the abyss he is so sure is waiting for him somewhere within those missing gaps.

The end comes without warning and perhaps most unsettling of all, without change. He stops. Coming to rest with the ground ruined behind him, but just as before there is only a blinding emptiness. It is as if existence has become frozen, locked beneath a sheet of ice so thick and smooth that it is unrecognizable. There is nothing, but still he knows this is where to stop. This spot is where he will find answers and though he is unable to explain how he comprehends this, he feels it somewhere inside.

He blinks and there is nothing in that moment. When his eyes open he is in the city.

The shock is instant, numbing his whole body like he has just submerged himself in the freezing depths of the ocean. It is all he can do to stand there, willing himself not to sink to the bottom like a stone as the city moves around him. Sound comes from the empty streets, filling it as though it was alive, but no sign of life presents itself. It mocks him, taunting him with the fact that he feels so close to freedom and yet is still so far.

A quick glance in the direction from which he had came reveals that all signs of the uncanny nothing have vanished, leaving no trace of the damage which had snakes its way under his feet. It is only the city, in front and behind him. Babylon, shining and content, just as he remembers it. Yet this is only a dream, he has to remind himself, and whatever has brought him to this place must be approached with caution.

He takes a step forward. The ground crumbles. He falls back.

Babylon burns. Buildings topple over, bricks turning to dust as if the ravages of time have all at once taken their toll. The screaming begins with no warning, followed by crying. The sharp metallic ringing of combat comes from the distance and he thinks he can hear a child calling out for its mother.

He knows this dream. He has had it before, filled with nearly identical sounds and sights. It is a plague upon him, one that has become more and more frequent with each passing day, but even now he knows something is different. There is no pain of the Daggertail wrapping itself around his flesh until his arm is ruined and bloody. There are no ethereal figures, faces obscured by a haze of gold. There is no comfort from the heat of the flames, no stopping the sounds. It is all so real and yet still so distant; it is a warning.

Lifting himself to his feet, he once again steps forward. The ground cracks, a horrific sound not unlike the ones he had heard in the vast emptiness before, but does not vanish from beneath him. The sounds grow louder with each step and the damage continues to follow his feet, splitting the world in two. The world falls into and out of place, as if he is blinking into and out of existence with it. Only when he reaches the steps of the palace does everything come to rest, reprieving him from the clutter it has created in his mind.

He climbs: one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. With each movement, a weight lifts itself from his shoulders. It frees him, untangling the anxiety from his gut as he reaches the final step and brings himself to the entrance of the grand building. Not a mark of the terror behind him can be seen on the façade of the great doors, or within the intricately carved stone. There is not a crack to be found. Indeed it stands, tall and proud, as a symbol of power and control.

Something snakes its way down his spine as the thoughts begin to overtake him. A wave of emotion that threatens to overtake him with the very pleasure it brings to his mind. It should all be his. The city. The palace. The throne. It should all belong to him. Has he not saved these pathetic creatures from an unjust god? Saved the man who had basked in their praise and glory for the deed, as if he had done it alone? Has he not proven himself a skilled warrior? He is just as much prince of this empire as his counterpart and by right, that makes this kingdom his.

Has he not earned it? Would he not do such a power justice?

As he steps forward, fully intending to claim what should be his alone, something behind him falls. It clatters to the ground, the metallic sound piercing through the haze that has filled his mind and jerking back to his senses. Eyes unclouded, he is able to recall that this is only a dream: an illusion that he has yet to understand. With shaking hands, he fists his hands into his hair, tugging at the strands and rubbing at his temples. It is a vain attempt to ease the pain that has once more returned, fighting within his skull like wolves.

Turn around, he tells himself, greet whatever has come for you.

So he does. On aching feet and shaking legs, he turns to meet his enemy. He expects something of terror, some beast that his mind has invented to understand the torture he has felt in the waking world. He finds nothing, no monsters or enemies to greet him. No haughty royal to stab him through the gut, or rotten princess to banish him into darkness. Regardless, what he finds does nothing to calm him; it makes his stomach churn and his headache more furiously than before.

The King's Sword rests upon the ground, mere feet from where he stands. Next to it, spiraling in and weaving out like a dead cobra rests his own precious jewel: the Daggertail. Cast aside, disregarded and cold. The weapons lay useless, unwanted and unneeded.

A truce. An agreement. It floods his mind. Whispered words, impossible to understand, weave their way into his head. He hears a voice, familiar and strong. He cannot remember the name that commands it. It claws into him, tears him apart piece by piece as the flames of the city below catch on the steely surfaces of the blades at his feet. He steps forward, ready to take back arms and claim what should be his.

Another step. The ground breaks. He falls.

He awakens.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter TWs: Death, War, Imprisonment_

* * *

He awakens.

The surge of consciousness floods his body and mind with sudden force, rushing and swirling within him. The intensity of the light outside his cell burns his eyes closed, forcing him to shield them momentarily. It gives him no reprieve, no chance to rise slowly, or greet the waking world at his own pace. There is no calm in his heart; instead it beats and his lungs gasp for air. His throat burns. His mind whirls: thoughts speeding to and fro. He tries to make sense of everything, to calm his nerves so that he might begin to understand the meaning of the vision, but nothing comes. His heart only continues to beat, faster and louder, until he can hear and think of nothing else. It is all consuming.

He gets to his feet. The movements involved are shaky, clumsy even, and he is only able to find his balance after several long seconds have passed. He feels drunk. As though he has stepped into a fog and allowed it to take over his mind. Movements are slow and thinking, slower still. He tries to steady himself, to focus on the familiar voice that had spoken to him within the realm of his dream, but is unable to find purchase on the crumbling edges. The details are fading quickly, leaving him with nothing more than ideas: the musts and must nots of the whole ordeal.

When he finally is able to free himself from the haze of sleep, confusion still remains. Attached to his ankles like shackles, refusing to allow him to roam completely free. Mind only just a step from the fog that rests behind him. He reaches up, pressing his fingers to his eyes and rubbing them until the few remaining trickles of sleep have vanished completely. It clears his mind, allows him to concentrate.

A shaking hand comes to rest upon his left arm, grasping hard at the muscle beneath the flesh. He squeezes. Releases. Squeezes again. There is something missing, something he is meant to understand. He knows this was no mere nightmare, for nothing so vivid has ever been so simple. This was a warning, a message urging him down a path he desperately wants to refuse. And despite this desperation, the strong desire to do so, the underlying feeling of dread threatens him from somewhere deep within. To refuse will spell out doom – perhaps even his death.

He begins to trace around his flesh, mimicking the serpentine path of the Daggertail upon his arm. He can still see it, resting upon the ground. Stripped of its purpose, resting with the sword of a king. To lay down his arms while facing his greatest enemy – it seems foolish, suicidal even – some part of him understands this to be what he has been guided to do. The path that will keep him alive.

"Always riddles, Empress." He sneers, eyes flicking about his prison as though he might catch a glance of the mysterious woman. He finds nothing, of course, but still she watches – he knows that her eyes are upon him. He wonders if she had ever really left. "Can no one here simply stay dead?"

He waits, half expecting a response to come echoing from somewhere within the jagged stone walls. When no reply comes, he returns to thoughts of what lies ahead. He thinks of Kaileena and the cryptic message that she has delivered him. No doubt she will be expecting him to reiterate this information to her precious Prince of Persia. Though that is to be expected. Surely she will have granted him similar visions, perhaps even the very same.

Knowing his counterpart as he does, the man will be quick to accept such things – quick to play his part in a destiny foretold by his former lover. How sentimental. It is almost enough to make him sick.

Still, there are questions. All of which have been left unanswered by the deceased Empress (a most infuriating habit of hers, he might add). He is reluctant to agree to her games and more so to work with the enemy. She favors the royal and in turn, that alone should make her another opponent, standing in the way of his rightful place upon the throne. He cannot trust her.

Yet, here he stands – alive and very much breathing.

Human.

"You might find me more willing to comply if you, oh I don't know, explained how this might benefit me." He hisses, his arms crossing across his chest like a defiant child. He waits, wondering if she might appear—a cloud of golden sand – in an attempt to argue for her cause. No such thing comes, of course, and a wave of air slips from his throat with unnecessary force. "You mean to kill me if I do not take my place on the board then?"

Silence. Though he knows the answer well enough. She has brought him back to life for some purpose, one he now fully suspects will greatly benefit Sargon; should he not comply, it would stand to reason that she can return him to the nothingness to which he had been banished before just as easily as she had returned him to the world of the living. She has him trapped.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he mutters a discontented, "Fine."

With a heavy sigh, one that works its way from deep inside of him, he brings himself to his feet. They ache beneath him, adding to the discomfort that the light outside has brought to his eyes, stinging at them like wasps. He presses his hands to his skull, rubbing at them until his vision is littered with spots of color. It offers him only temporary relief before he is once more assaulted with the discomforting sensation. Irritated, he snaps, "I must ask though: How long do you expect me to rot in here? If you want me to play along with your little games then send your prince to release me, or try opening the—"

He stops; a detail registers in his mind, filling his brain with flecks of hot anger, like drops of molten gold in his veins. It is enough to fill his body with shame at being so oblivious, enough to bring a pale redness to his cheeks. Such bright light had never graced his cell during his entire stay within, nor was it common for prison doors to have their locks broken and their doors open wide to freedom. The anger is further replaced with embarrassment as he steps forward, reaching a cautious hand forward and into the gap where metal rods should be. His senses find nothing: no tactile reason for him to remain within and no gut wrenching feelings that he is being lead into a trap.

Still, should it really be this easy?

Experience thus far has taught him otherwise, but something is alight inside of him. Twisting and turning, an excitement that fills him so quickly that a pounding begins in his skull. There is no time to waste and he decides, finally stepping through the open threshold before him, that he would rather not question his good fortune. He has much to do and much more to discover. So many questions are still unanswered, left open and waiting for greedy hands to rip apart. His body shakes, the feeling of freedom filling him until he is hardly able to stand against its weight.

As he stumbles down the once darkened path that weaved between the walls of cells – legs aching and lungs deprived of air—the feeling of dread slowly begins to fill him. This is no trap and he senses no danger, yet there is something in the air that feels wrong. The others are gone; there is no screaming or begging for freedom. No cries for forgiveness. There is simply nothing – an utter lack of any sign of life.

Where has everyone gone?

The door ahead is open, the light of day pouring through it and bathing him in its warmth for the first time in what he knows to have been at least a total of four agonizing weeks. Perhaps more. To him the feeling is nothing short of euphoric – a feeling not unlike the finest silk upon skin, or the rush after a particularly vicious kill. It is almost enough to ease the worry in his mind and makes the rock of apprehension that rests in his stomach seem just a bit lighter. While the light does not chase away the monsters completely, it is still a glorious victory. He is grateful for it and were he a more pathetic man, he might fall to his knees and thank a higher power for his freedom. Instead though, he moves forward. Legs carrying him fast and far, away from the wretched hole in the ground that had been his home for so long.

As he moves fully into the courtyard, expecting the sights of guards or at least to see the rioting of prisoners free of their shackles, he is shocked to find neither – or at least not as he expects. The area, littered with blooming flowers and bush (to hide the horrors only just behind him, he thinks. For what other reason would you embroider this cursed place with such beauty?), shares its home with blood and rot. Strewn about the ground lies both guard and prisoner alike, both equal in death and their attackers gone. Only he remains.

Something eats into him, picking at his flesh and begging him to direct his attention towards it. The feeling, like there are eyes watching him, causes the ache in his head to worsen and he finds himself quickly making his way back towards the palace, eager for once to be free from the sight of death and destruction. The enemy is gone, they have let him live, and yet he finds a voice inside him screaming to escape before the danger returns.

"Something is wrong." He mutters, pressing his weight into the heavy doors separating him from the palace's inner walls. They creak open slowly, their weight meant for the strength of machines and chains, not the muscles of men. Slipping inside, he repeats the action, hoping to trap the nameless creature watching him inside. Something tells him it will not work. "I have only known this kind of silence before in…"

Stepping forward, his attention is caught by the sight of fire and smoke. It pours from the city around him, seeping into cracks and nearly staining the entire sky until it is black. The light that had so kindly warmed his icy flesh, he realizes, has not been that of the sun.

He rushes forward. His feet beat into the ground with each step, his legs aching for him to stretch and ease his muscles into use more slowly, but he cannot afford such luxury. This is not a war, for wars are waged with battles fought. The attacker within the walls has made short work of the protectors of the city. It is like the nightmares have told him. Babylon is burning. The sounds of the city have become a chorus of screams and crying. They are doomed to die, doomed to watch as the city falls to the enemy. Their fates have been sealed.

"No." He frowns, the images of his nightmare flashing before him. There is still a way. If he is to survive this, he knows what he must do. He must find the Prince. "A dangerous riddle you wished for me to solve, Empress."

She does not answer, though he knows better than to expect it. Instead, he continues to move and bursts into the palace, feet carrying him towards the throne. She will have warned them both, he knows this, and he will be waiting. He rushes through the corridors, the path twisting and threatening to trip him. He can hear the sounds of battle echoing from ahead; metal clashing against metal, the gasps of someone taking their final breath – victory.

As he enters the open doorway, his instincts prove to be true. The royal stands, sword drawn and lips carved into a snarl. Beside him, a princess stands, her bow pulled taut and arms shaking from the strain. He wrinkles his nose in distaste and steps forward, only stopping momentarily to gather up a fallen weapon from the stone floor. There are no signs of the enemy, but he is quick to notice the dusting of sand upon the ground. He tells himself it is nothing, only the result of living in the desert, but experience tells him otherwise.

"Call me old fashioned," he starts, grabbing their attention and lift his hands in a sign of surrender when Farah points her arrow in his direction, "but I always thought one should woo a woman without resorting to bloodshed."

Sargon's eyes narrow, malice sparking within them and momentarily threatening to shatter him apart, before he reaches forward and uses his shaking hands to lower Farah's bow. The demon smiles, lowering his hands and raising a brow, "I must say it is infinitely more interesting than the alternative though."

"What are you doing here?" The Prince snaps, shoving Sharaman's sword into its sheath. His actions betray him and it is all The Dark Prince needs to confirm that they have indeed been given the same mission. "I have half a mind to run you through right here."

"Oh? Half a mind? You give yourself too much credit." The entity retorts, chuckling when he receives a snarl in response. "Come now, don't play coy. We both know what we have been told to do; and let us not pretend our master is kind. For she is wicked in ways only we are privy too. We will do as she commands, or be doomed."

Farah steps forward now, her body shielding Sargon as though she fears he will be torn away from her at any moment. It could almost make him laugh, if the overwhelming feeling of being ill did not trump it first. My though, how she has grown and the confidence in her voice only does more to prove that observation, "We are not here for banter, demon."

"No." He quickly responds, lifting his blade and running a finger along the smooth metal. Her eyes, dark and filled with secret thoughts, watch him, observing the silent threat with a boldness he finds himself almost admiring. "Though you must understand my hesitance to get to the point, princess. For you are as deadly to me as you are beautiful."

She frowns and from behind her, blue eyes seem to flash with green, protective rage. He smiles, lowering his weapon and stepping forward slightly, "What is to stop you from killing me once again? Or have you both forgotten that you locked me away? Trapped me after I did nothing but offer you my skill?"

A growl works its way up Sargon's throat, catching his attention as the royal says, "Your skill? You only sought to bring death to Babylon. To imprison her people and being your tyranny."

"Do not speak of which you know nothing of!" He snaps back, again stepping forward until he is able to grasp onto the amber brown flesh of Farah's arm and shove her aside. She stumbles, nearly falling to the ground from the force, but catches herself. In one fluid motion, her bow is once more drawn, an arrow notched and ready to fire. She looks more warrior than princess in that moment. "Was I not your ally? I sought only to make us kings! To take back iour/i city! We could have ruled: the three of us together."

The frown on the girl's face deepens, a flash of disgust evident in her eyes and he snarls as an unfamiliar pang of discomfort shoots through his chest. There is silence between the three of them then, as though each has stopped to consider his words more carefully. After some time, he sheathes his weapon and beckons the princess to do the same. She pulls back slightly and looks to Sargon, who gives a curt nod. She hesitates before complying, standing back on her feet and joining her companion once more, "We do not have time to settle old scores."

"We cannot trust him." Sargon reasons, though he makes no move to suggest he will disobey the orders he has received. "But Kaileena was a dear friend. I trust her judgment."

The Dark Prince snorts, "Quite the complicated friendship, I'd say."

There is a pause in the royal's speech, as if the words have caught him off guard. If he looks closely enough, he thinks he can see a hint of redness spreading across Sargon's cheeks, though he continues without anymore of a hint of shame, "We both love this city. Therefore, we share a common goal and once more, a common enemy. If you are willing to lay down your weapons, then I will do the same.

"But know this, demon," his counterpart steps forward, until they are only inches from each other. Should he choose to, he could draw his blade and find it purchase within the chest of his other half. He resists the temptation, the threat of destruction at the hands of the Empress still looming behind him like a shadow. "Should you betray us, or harm Farah and my people, I will not hesitate to pick up my sword and end your life."

He thrusts a hand forward. It is an offer of peace, but he can see the way his fingers strain, his muscles tight and hesitant to comply with the actions. He stares at the appendage; his mind screaming to spit at the offer while his self-preservation knows that the option will mark him for death. He lifts his hand as well, letting it hover for a moment before reaching forward and grasping his Sargon's hand in his own – a truce, a mockery of brotherhood, but a truce nonetheless.

They shake.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter TWs: Torture, Violence Against Women, Mild Body Horror, Canon Typical Violence_

* * *

"What a touching moment."

The voice breaks through the silence, shaking the two men from their spell and pulling them from their hatred. The Prince turns to Farah, as though he has expected the strange speech to have somehow originated from her mouth, but the princess instead stands, her body tense with shock, "You heard that too?"

Both men muster a slow nod and The Dark Prince finds his hand upon his found weapon despite himself. He is not a man who enjoys surprises, least of all when he is on the receiving end of them. Yet, there is something in the voice that soothes him. As though he is a startled cat and it is the hand smoothing back his fur. He is sure, so very sure, that he has never heard it before, but it rings in his ears like a song. He both knows and does not know it, and as if signaled by his internal struggle, the voice reveals itself: a woman.

She makes her way down the steps leading above to the throne, arms stretched from her sides gently, as though to keep her balance as she moves her way towards them. He stares, marveling in the way she seems to glide – she reminds him of a ghost – towards the edge of the balcony. She is not unlike a statue of gold, a treasure to be stolen and protected: golden hair to match the golden trinkets that adorn her fawny-pink skin and stranger still piercing eyes that remind him of the burning sun. She seems to glow, to adorn the very room around her with light. It is both comfortingly beautiful and unsettling all at once. She is not human.

He breaks from the trance and pulls his sword free. Soon after, Sargon follows suit and Farah draws her bow soon after. They can do little from their current position, but with a weapon in his hand, he does not feel so exposed. She smiles in response, "What a warm welcome."

As she leans forward, placing her hands onto the balcony railing and looking down upon them, the gold that adorns her dances and plays a melody all its own. That smile still has not left her face and with each passing moment, it fills him with more unease. Farah's aim follows the woman, circling around her throat until her arm is shaking, "Pardon our rudeness, but we were not expecting guests."

The mysterious woman laughs and he can see Farah's eyes narrow as her vague threat is disregarded like some sort of joke. Beside him, the Prince is frozen. He can sense it too, whatever it is. There is something about this woman that they both recognized, but he is sure that neither of them have ever crossed her path. When the man finally finds his voice, the venom that had been found within his princess's is nowhere to be found, for it has been drowned out by the confusion within, "Are you the one behind this attack?"

"I am." She responds, smile fading but taking not a moment to hesitate. Sargon's stance tenses and he draws himself up. "You may call me Eudocia and I have come to Babylon seeking a prince."

She pauses, motioning towards Sargon with a grand sweep of her arm. He steps back, as though she has presented him with a most offensive offer. Her smile returns and after a moment, she turns towards the dark entity beside him, "And a demon."

The Dark Prince frowns, her gaze upon him making his heart painfully skip several beats. The very breath is knocked from his lungs, as though he has fallen hard to the ground beneath him. He wants to tear her apart, to watch her blood flow from her. He wants to be rid of this new enemy and focus on his true purpose. Yet, was this not what he had been warned of? Was this not what the endless nightmares had foretold? He straightens, speaking with a mock confidence to her, "If I may interrupt this fascinating conversation—"

"Not now!" Sargon snaps, eyes narrowing at their enemy. He is eager to receive more answers to his questions. His companion though, finds he is not asking the right one. There is more to this woman, he knows it. He can sense it – practically smells it. If the Prince is too blind to see it, then he must take charge and bring it to his attention. After all, he thinks, he is the smart one.

"Can you not see?" He hisses, "She is not human. She hides something within her."

"He is right." Farah agrees, surprising him. Her aim has lowered and the arrow hangs loosely from her fingertips. She has turned her gaze from the enemy to watch the two men behind her. "Sargon, he is right."

"I know."

"Oh good!" The Dark Prince says, annoyance filling him. "I'm so glad that we did not think to question her about that first! After all, what better to ask than a question with an obvious answer? Of course she is the one who attacked the city, you fool!"

"That is enough." Sargon warns, the fire in his eyes suddenly directed solely to his counterpart. "I will not have you speaking to me like—"

"Like what? Like an incompetent child? I find it hard to stop myself when you prove it true so often!"

"Oh, do forgive me!" The royal says, his hands balling into fists at his sides. There is overconfidence in his eyes now, mixed with fury that is usually held only by his other half. It makes a shiver work its way down his spine. Good, he thinks, get mad. He would only be defending himself from the spoiled brat, but Sargon refuses to take the bait. "After all, I would hate to offend the senses of an arrogant rat!"

With a snarl, he moves to pounce at his counterpart, thinking of how he might rip the man open and spill his guts to the floor. Sargon seems to return the sentiment, swinging his sword towards the demon with little pause. He can hear Farah, standing at the sidelines and yelling for both of them to stop. If anything, her protests egg him on, fuel a fire inside of him so hot that it feels as though he is melting. Their blades clash with a metallic ring, but within seconds they are sent flying backwards, their weapons ripped from their hands and tossed aside. From above, the strange woman laughs.

Farah runs to Sargon's side.

"How amusing!" Eudocia sings, her hand outstretched and hovering directly in line where they had once stood. "I knew I would be getting a show from you two, but this exceeds my expectations. Faced with the enemy and you would rather be killing each other!"

A groan escapes from his mouth as he pushes his way up off the floor, the ache in his shoulders nearly forcing him back. It is almost enough to distract him from the situation at hand, as it mixes into his still sore muscles with a new fury, but instead a snarl rips its way from his throat. Everything burns, his anger fueled by the heat inside of him. He suddenly wishes for nothing more than to tear this strange woman apart and make her pay for her interruption in his plans. She is the enemy and he has no time for her distractions. He finds his voice, speaks loudly for her to hear, "Oh, do feel free to cut ahead in line if you desire death so. I would be more than happy to accommodate you!"

Ruby red lips fall, forming a deep frown that seems to crack her glowing visage to pieces. It lasts only for a moment, but it is long enough for him to catch the spark that faults within her and the golden flames of her eyes seem to die out, stilling until they are nothing more than a deep green. In a moment, she is human. Just as quickly though, her armor returns, masking her weaknesses behind them again until she once more stands above them like a god.

"You could try." She snaps. Her shoulders are tense, a clear signal of her frustration with him, and he notes the way her fingers curl around the railing in front of her – her knuckles growing white from the force of her grip. "But I will not forfeit my life to you so easily. After all, that is why we're here, isn't it? Because you foolish princes cannot simply leave time in its proper order! You feel the need to mess about – to control the Sands of Time yourselves—no matter the cost to others!"

This shakes him. Sends a shock not unlike a lightening strike through his body, making his fingers ache and his heart pound. Things are clicking into place, the pieces moving until he is able to see the picture clearly. She is not human, he reminds himself, but she is still mortal. He looks to Sargon, looking to see if he has come to the realization as well. He can tell by the way the man's eyes have narrowed and the shaking of his arms that he indeed has.

"You are the Empress of Time." The royal announces. His voice is faulting slightly and he is sure that he is the only one to notice the fear (or perhaps it is regret) it carries. A pause, it is an invitation for her to deny the words. She does not answer and Sargon continues, "Kaileena is dead. The Sands are gone."

"Gone?" She sounds almost offended by his words, as though her throat has grown tight and fights to keep the words down. "Time was created by a power higher than any creature to ever walk this earth. It cannot be destroyed, removed, or forgotten! _I_ cannot be destroyed!"

He almost does not see the arrow flying.

With a cry, Eudocia falls back, narrowly missing death. A red gash upon her cheek evidence that while Farah's aim had not met its target, she had still managed to leave her mark upon the enemy. The woman screams. It pierces his ears, her anger filling the room completely as she reaches upwards to wipe away the blood that has begun to streak its way down her skin. Instead, she only manages to smear the stain.

"Seems my arrows are fit enough to wound you. Shall we see if the next one can pierce your heart?" Farah says, still resting upon her knee. She reaches back, swiftly removing an arrow from her quiver and taking aim. She is quicker than she had been in Azad – more deadly. She has grown from a naive princess into a fierce warrior. The demon finds himself admiring that.

Eudocia wastes no time to admire the princess's skill. Instead she removes her hand from her bleeding skin and thrusts it skyward, encasing herself in a swarm of golden sand. Time stills, almost coming to a complete stop for just a moment, but with a burst of light, he is forced to his knees. He recognizes this magic – knows it to be the Sands of Time. Her words are true and she alone has the power to raise an army to destroy all of Persia. She is free to do as she wishes to not only Babylon, but the entire world.

"We cannot fight her." Sargon calls to him, catching his attention and drawing his gaze away from the sand gathering at their feet. He rushes for his father's sword, sweeping it into his hand as he motions for Farah to follow him. She lowers her aim, gathering the arrow and returning it to its resting place before following him to the demon's side. "Not here. Not when she has the advantage."

"Have you not killed an Empress before?" He mocks, looking to him with a smile that verges on a snarl. "Do not tell me that you have become too soft for that even? What happened to the Prince I knew? Are you not eager to protect what is yours? Stand and fight!"

Sargon's eyes narrow at that. They have had this conversation before, long ago and nothing has changed. Again, he forces a smile, "Let me guess, you're going to tell me to shut up?"

"We do not have time for this!" Sargon shouts in response. As he attempts to think up a snide response to the comment, he barely registers the royal charging forward and grasping the collar of his tunic in one tight fist. "We are not allies, but that woman seeks to rob us both of Babylon. Even if only for your own selfish purposes, we must work together in this fight. As we stand now, the upper hand belongs to her. We have no chance here."

He stares back at the man, anger once more filling his veins. He can no longer find the will to hide the contempt inside of him, letting his irreverent mask fall away as he speaks, "I do not run. If you are too busy shaking in your boots to stop her, than stand aside and let me do the heavy lifting!"

He plans to shove Sargon back – to force him off and move in for an attack. It could be done in seconds, he had determined. With his skill, the woman could be rid of before she was done with whatever strange ritual she had begun.

It is the pain that makes him consider otherwise.

His first thought is that Sargon has driven his blade into him, but after several moments of sheer shock, he realizes it is more akin to being burned alive from the inside. It is hot and vicious, nothing like the feeling of cool metal resting like the dead in his flesh. It starts in his shoulder, flaring into the muscles of his back and cracking apart his skin until he is sure it hangs from his bones like tatters of cloth. It works its way down his arm. The torture is vast and he loses track of how long it has been; he realizes he is unable to even scream. It chokes him, forces the air from his lungs and he is left with his mouth wide and begging, but unable to take in or release. He cannot even scream and in front of him, Sargon stares horrified - his eyes wide and filled with an emotion he can only think of to describe as disgust. He swears he can see fear there too.

It is not until the torture stops and he fully realizes that it had not come at the hand of the man standing before him that he is able to turn his head weakly towards to the woman above them. She stands, no longer clouded, and with a vicious smile upon her face. Her hand is pointed at him. Her eyes are glowing gold.

Had he really been her target?

His shoulder is blackened. He only catches a glimpse of it as he turns his head, but the sight is unmistakable. He has indeed burned, his flesh pulling away from itself. It sits on him like a spider's web – weak, yet weaved together in an intricate mess of positive and negative space. He finds though, this does not concern him nearly as much as the rivers of molten gold that flow down his arm in intricate weaves and spirals. It is a familiar sight – one that is both welcomed and confusing. Perhaps concerning even, considering their current situation.

He has been infected by the Sands of Time.

"Much less appealing to be on the receiving end." He manages to choke out the words, his eyes slowly traveling down the infected appendage. Disappointment floods his stomach when he finds that it does not travel beyond his shoulder. Despite the taint, he remains human – or as human as one might appear. "Though it seems she is not nearly as talented as she thought."

Another wave of pain courses through him, starting in his arm and shooting its way across his body. It settles in his heart, making the organ do strange beats. It feels as though it may stop altogether. He realizes quickly that the Sands are spreading, tearing his body apart and molding it from the inside. He is resisting it – mostly. It is almost too fitting.

Sargon is quick to act, gathering their weapons and thrusting an arm around his dazed companion. He means to protest, or to at least insist that he is capable of walking on his own two legs, but words fail him. Instead, he allows himself to be dragged away, guided from the gaze of the enemy. He feels as if he is dying. The humanity that has been thrust upon him slowly succumbing to the waves of pain that crash down upon him. No, it is not only a feeling: he is sure of it; this is what it is to die. She means to torture him.

"While I am loathe to admit it, it appears I am now at a disadvantage." He concedes, body trembling against the shocks that spread through him. It is almost too much to stay conscious; his mind fights for relief. It wants to lull itself into slumber until in more desirable conditions. He fights against the temptation, focusing on the way the spirals of flesh are carved from his arm and filled with rich light and the way Sargon's fingers dig into his shoulders. "But I know someone who may be able to help us."

Sargon makes for the doors and Farah follows, turning only to fire her arrows one last time towards the creatures that slowly begin to take form in the Sands around them. Eudocia and her servants do not follow. He wonders why, especially when she had been so seemingly close to victory.

Groaning, he forces himself to stand fully on his feet, ignoring the discomfort that pulled at his arm as it shifts against the royal's shoulders. Calmly, calmer than he truly feels, he speaks. "Your dear Kaileena has left me a gift. I'll be needing to retrieve it."

Sargon's eyes remain locked ahead, leading them through the palace gates and into the burning walls of the city. "Where?"

"Azar."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) As much as I love how the series handled ending the creation/use of the Sands of Time, I also feel like it just wouldn't be possible for them, or the one controlling them to be completely gone, which is where Eudocia comes in. She'll be getting more of a backstory in later chapters to explain exactly who and what she is, but for the time being, welcome her to this cast of characters!_

 _ii) Eudocia is a Greek name meaning "good-seeming."_


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter TWs: Violence, violence against women, implied violence against children, mentions of death and war._

* * *

Once more he finds himself at the brink of death, or what he can only describe as the feeling of death, and at the walls of Azar's homestead. Behind them, the city is falling into slow ruin – fires burning at his back and the distant screams of citizens suffocate him until his lungs ache for air. The nightmares that have plagued his sleep for months have finally come to fruition. He tries to close his eyes, to block out everything around him and wake up, but the sounds that swarm his senses continue. They drive into his skull, chipping away at him like stone and leaving cracks where none once resided.

Sargon holds him up, keeps him from falling to the ground in a useless pile. The whole thing is an embarrassment. This is not how things should be and yet the infection in his arm continues to burn so fiercely that he is not sure his own legs will be able to support him. He feels weak.

Farah pounds at the door before them – calls for Azar to let them inside and grant them shelter. Her voice trembles as she speaks and while there is fear, he senses something much more behind it: anger. She has seen first hand the horrors that war can bring to a kingdom. She has watched both her own homeland and Babylon crumble under the might of a single army. Now it is happening again. Yes, she is afraid, but her unsteady voice also hides behind it the will to survive.

He finds another reason to admire the princess.

The door swings open and Farah steps back, nearly scrambling away as the wood is lifted from her skin. The sight before them justifies her reasons, for Azar is not the one who greets them. A man stands in her place, sword drawn and blood streaked across his face. His stare at them, eyes wide with desperation and not seeming to register that his own king stands before him. The air around them seems to thicken, making his already painful breaths more difficult and desperate.

The man stands, unmoving like a statue, and it is only when Sargon speaks an order to let them pass that he seems to awaken from his hypnosis. Finally, he moves.

As they move forward and into the temporary safety of the building, Sargon rests his hand on the panicked man's shoulder. It seems to fully awaken the man, bringing him back to his senses until he breaks. Pathetic sobs rise from the soldier's throat, until they nearly block out the noise outside and the man drops his weapon to the ground. Farah gently closes the door behind them, blocking them from the chaos outside.

A new chaos greets them.

"He is not welcome here."

Azar steps forward, her small frame the only barrier between them and huddle of women and children. Blood soaks her clothing and covers her hands. Her face is littered with droplets of crimson and her golden eyes spark until a fire is burning behind them. She is ferocious – standing like a warrior, more ready to defend these people than the soldier behind them. He cannot help but laugh.

"Leave!" She snarls, thrusting a dagger in their direction until it is in line with his throat. "I will not have that creature in my home."

Sargon steps forward, reaching his hand towards the startled woman. She jumps back, away from him and slices her weapon through the air. It arcs upwards before landing only inches from his right eye. The monarch frowns and speaks, his voice calm despite the tension in his muscles, "Azar, he means you no harm."

Her eyes narrow, temporarily shutting the flames within her out from them. She is a wildfire of rage and he finds himself drawn to the heat of it all, despite his own anger towards her earlier betrayal. He prefers when enemies do not just lay down and die.

"He is one of them."

"I am nothing like those creatures, woman." He says through a growl, only wincing when the pain in his arm becomes too much for him to ignore. He can see the flash in her eyes start once again. She has sensed the weakness within him and she regards him suddenly like a wounded animal. But her fear does not vanish.

"You threatened my life." She snaps. Her voice shakes, but not unlike Farah's had before. Her story is almost like a mirror of the princess's own – a survivor of war and a mark of such cruelty and her refusal to let it take her both then and now.

"I said I would take back what you stole." He counters, freeing himself of Sargon's grasp and stepping forward, towards her and the people she protects. Again she steps away from him, thrusting her weapon with the intention to take his life this time. He snarls and snatches the blade, grasping the metal in his hand until trickles of blood flow from a new wound, and heaves it away. It clatters to the ground, striking the wooden floors with a piercing sound and one of the children gasps before falling into muffled sobs against their mother's chest. "Though that is not to say I have not imagined it."

Azar's eyes widen, the flames dying out for a moment before another spark reawakens them. She stares openly at his infected appendage, before her eyes once more harden. The fear hides itself behind her anger, until she stands tall before him, unimpressed with his threats. Blood flows from a deep gash on her hand, marking lines where the claws of his own hand have damaged her skin. "You do not frighten me."

"Oh, but I do," he states calmly and steps towards the woman once more. "Now, give me the medallion, or you will have something entirely new to fear."

Her shoulders roll back ever so slightly, a signal that despite her apparent confidence she wishes to flee from him. She does no such thing, instead speaking a defiant, "No."

He laughs then, turning away from her sharply and looking towards his companions. Farah clings to Sargon's arm, her own gaze like stone and a deep frown lining her features. Sargon simply glares, his anger with the demon evident to all present. "We do not have time to reason with you, girl."

"Azar." She hisses.

A sigh signals his displeasure. After all, he has made a simple request and she is choosing not to comply. Her own king stands behind him and she regards him still as the true enemy – and perhaps she is correct, but that matter will be handled later. After all, he does not have time to waste. He locks his gaze with Sargon and smiles.

"Azar! Move!"

And she does. Quicker than he thought possible she ducks away from his attack. He had intended to dig his hand into the flesh of her throat, but instead it only finds purchase on her shoulder – his talons clipping the skin just enough to make her cry out. She falls to the floor, her hands splaying out in front of her as she attempts to gather her wits once more. He snarls and she rolls to her side, hand pressing onto the wound as she takes her breaths deeply.

The women and children scream.

"She stands in our way." He says, turning back to Sargon swiftly. His counterpart has his sword drawn, ready to spill his very essence onto the ground if necessary. "Must I spell it out for you? That medallion is the key!"

"Desperation will not solve this problem." Sargon states, his voice calm despite outward appearances. "And attacking Azar will change nothing. Now stand down. Before I am forced to make you do so."

His eyes narrow and he can feel red hotness fill his veins, "Ah yes, I did forget who was really in charge here."

Behind him, Azar moves. Her weight shifting the boards beneath her ever so slightly as she does so and the noise of her clothes against the wood makes him turn slightly to watch her. Her hand rests upon her shoulder, grasping tightly onto the wounded skin, but it does little to cover the damage done. Like him though, that fire has not left her and he can see the way it courses through her even then.

"That hurt," she says between breaths, the fire in her eyes only faltering each time the pain sets in. He watches the way her hand squeezes the wound. As though the pain her own touch brings dulls her senses long enough to forget the blood that slips through the cracks of her fingers. "Though I'm sure your pride will hurt far worse."

Before he can contemplate what she means, he is pulled down – back and head both hitting the floor with a loud _thump_ that knocks the breath from his lungs. It shocks him for he had not expected her to attack, to continue on with this physical fight. He makes a move to sit back up, but she is over him in the next moment. Her eyes are hard and the golden light in them dull – again he senses more in her. "Another move and I break it."

It takes only a moment to see what exactly it is that she speaks of: the Medallion of Time. Grasped in her hand, fingers coiled around its smooth surface, and arm raised high above him. He smiles, both filled with amusement and annoyance all at once.

"It cannot be broken."

"Are you certain?" She hisses. "We could test that. Or perhaps I shall throw it into a well. A deep and dark one where even you will have trouble finding it."

"You would only be dooming yourself."

"And you."

He snorts, pushing the laugh through his nostrils and enjoying the way the sound startles the woman above him. "Would you sacrifice all of Babylon to end my life?"

She frowns, but her answer does not come like he expects. The flash in her eyes tells him that she indeed has considered the possibility already – but there is something more there. Hatred fills her very soul and practically pours from her eyes and flows from the blood in her wounds. Interesting, he thinks, that even she is not the picture of nobility or selflessness. Her answer though, tells him something different and it is no lie either, "No."

"The medallion then? Or would you rather waste more time?"

The weight on his stomach where her knee had been pressed fades as she moves back to her feet. Farah is at her side then, poking and prodding as the wounds as Azar continues to stare at him. The medallion has not left her hand, nor has her grip upon it lessened. If anything, she seems more protective of the item and he can practically see the plan she is forming silently before them. He sits up, resting his weight onto his elbows and groaning slightly as his shoulders pop and ache. He is finally able to come back to his feet and reach a hand towards her, "We haven't got all day."

"I said no, did I not?" She mutters, grimacing as the princess begins to bandage the wounds on her shoulder. Again, he can feel a flare of annoyance in his chest – he does not have the patience to go round in circles with this woman. Worse still, he does not have the time. "I am coming with you."

" _What_? No."

He steps forward, fully intending to once more put her in her place. The request is a ridiculous one. She would not only be an unnecessary addition to their party, but she is already injured. "You will draw attention to us. Slow us down!"

"I was not the one spotted by palace guards!" She says, moving until the gap between them has closed just slightly more. "And if anything I would be an asset."

Sargon roughly pulls him back before anymore can be said. It seems his counterpart has had more than enough of their bickering, or at least more than enough of him. "This mission is dangerous, Azar. We know very little about our enemy. Give the medallion to me – I can be trusted."

"Then all the more reason for me to come. You can use my skills." She states before softening, her shoulders falling slightly and the tension in her muscles evaporating. Again, he recalls her face – younger and more naïve. He had known her – they had known her. She looks like that woman in the moment, instead of whatever Zurvan's attack had made her become. "Babylon is all I have left and I am the one who healed this monster. I saved his life and now I must be sure that my mistake does not destroy us all."

After a moment she adds, "I have nothing more to lose."

That makes him pause and then he notices the silence that has fallen in the room. Save for the few muffled sobs of the babes in the corner, there is nothing. He looks to Sargon, fully expecting the man to argue further with the girl, but instead he finds his eyes downturn. He has refused to meet her gaze and he can practically see the way the guilt drips from ever pore on his skin. Azar, on the other hand, does not seem to sense it as such and only rests a comforting hand on the man's arm. The golden flecks in her gaze are once more bright, all ill will held towards him vanishing as she comforts the man before her.

"Azar is right." Sargon finally speaks, stepping back from the girl's grasp and looking towards Farah. The princess nods, silently approving of the choice he has made. It seems to further pacify him and he regains the confidence in his posture after only a few moments. "She can help us. And, I trust her to keep the medallion safe."

"She is a burden." He argues, throwing the weight of his hand in Azar's direction. She lets out a sharp laugh, but says nothing. It only serves to irritate him further and it takes more patience than he cares to admit not to once more being arguing with her. "Am I the only one who can see that the costs outweigh the benefits in this situation? She does not even know our enemy. Nor does she know what power that trinket carries."

Irritated as well, Azar steps forward. Farah tries too sooth the girl's anger, grasping for her hands and arms before letting out a frustrated noise of her own. Like Sargon, she seems to be sick of the bickering between them. It does nothing to stop the healer from speaking, "Then you will have to catch me up on the particulars."

A huff of air from his mouth sends several strands of tangled, white hairs forward, before they once more settle upon his face. He wrinkles his nose in response, ready to be done with her. "Do you recall when I said your determination was only an admirable quality in the right amounts?"

Her fists tighten, "I could say the same for your stubbornness."

"Both of you. That is enough." Farah commands, finally stepping forward until she is between them. Her dark eyes have narrowed and her shoulders have once more tensed, though this time there is no fear that accompanies the change in her posture. "Fighting amongst each other will get us nowhere. If we wish to defeat this enemy, we will have to work together."

He opens his mouth to speak – to interrupt the princess's words with a sensible argument, or a clever quip. She only raises her hand to stop him, one slender finger pointed in his direction in a vaguely threatening manner. He finds, to some annoyance, that words are lost to him and he retreats back to silence like a shamed child. Farah, meanwhile, continues. "Sargon is right. Are you so blind to strategy? Azar is a valuable ally to us – one who can keep us alive with her knowledge."

She rests her hands upon her hips then, glancing between the both of them for a moment and sighing, "Not only that, but she is more trustworthy than you, demon."

He tries to ignore the strange, sharp emotion that settles in his stomach at her words and instead smiles, his lips tight and one corner rising slightly. "Well, now you've gone and hurt my feelings."

"She is right." Azar says, crossing her arms over herself tightly and turning to look intensely at the wall before them. "We cannot win this battle divided. The medallion will stay with me and I with you. By doing so, you have access to both it and my talents - surely those terms are acceptable?"

A heavy breath pushes through the girl's lips and her hips cock slightly away from him. After a moment, one where she appears to be continuing her intense contemplation of the wall in front of her, she finally turns towards him. With hesitation, she extends her hand in his direction and he notes that for such intelligent creatures, humans have found a strange and dangerous way to communicate their begrudging trust towards one another. Carefully, he reaches forward with his own hand, grasping her small palm with his own. They pause briefly, their eyes meeting and he wonders if she feels the same strange respect towards him that he feels for her, before shaking.

"It would appear that I have no other choice." He says, noting the unpleasant feeling that comes with having to ally with two enemies in one day. "After all, it is as I said: I am not the one in charge."

No one comments on his words, though he suspects that is because they all know it to be true. Instead Sargon finally steps forward and towards the small gathering they have created with their alliance. A strange and small army, but one that will stay mostly hidden from the eyes of their enemy while soldiers continue to help the citizens escape the walls of the city. He wonders though, how long they can all last. Or at least how long until he cannot help but turn on them. Sargon seems to sense this and a deep frown falls onto his one stoic face, "It seems our adventures begin once again."

"Yes, well. We should move then." The demon begins, stepping back from the small crowd. Yet another strange feeling has settled in his stomach, but unlike the last it floats in his chest as well. Not unpleasant, but still unwelcome. "After all, time is not on our side."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) We have a discord server! That's right, I made a Prince of Persia video game discord server for fans of all the games. Enjoy the original trilogy? Want to gush about Sands of Time? Need friends to discuss the 2008 reboot? Just send me a message, or follow this link without spaces; discord . gg /XHhPg6X_


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter TWs: Mentions of violence against women, panic attacks._

* * *

"Should we not be heading towards the palace?" He questions, adjusting the blade at his side with irritation. The weapon is cumbersome, getting in the way of moving and providing no use to him outside of combat. He longs for the Daggertail. "We now have an advantage – one this new enemy does not expect."

A grunt comes from behind him and he turns slightly, watching as Azar pulls herself up the mud-bricks with obvious effort. He watches for a moment longer as she struggles, clearly she is not used to climbing about the city's rooftops, before offering her his hand with an irritated glare. She ignores him and he rolls his eyes before turning back to Sargon. "We have killed an Empress before after all. This one is no different."

"She has the protection of the palace walls." Sargon replies, his pale eyes scanning the horizon of rooftops ahead of them. "And an army."

He shrugs and motions a hand towards him, "And did we not face far worse on the Island of Time? Kaileena had a fortress and armies as well, you seem to forget."

"I was a desperate man then – fearful of the Dahāka and willing to do whatever necessary to escape death." His counterpart says, turning to him and crossing his arms. The darkening of his gaze tells him this is a memory he does not wish to recall. He still truly believes he is no longer the same man who stepped foot on that island. "My desperation to defeat my enemy cost my crew their lives. We cannot let the same thing happen to Babylon."

He groans before throwing his hands to the air in a dramatic fashion, "It is as I said with the Vizier: their suffering will only end when the enemy is dead. You are wasting time by focusing on anything else!"

"So it _was_ you!" Farah's voice breaks through the air, already fierce and condemning. Both men turn towards her, watching as her eyebrows knit together and her hands ball into tight fists. Her body shakes slightly, the anger pumping through her veins barely hidden beneath the surface. "The demon that sat upon his shoulder, whispering lies into his ear. A creature so focused on vengeance and bloodshed that you have grown to feel nothing but a cold disregard for the people you claim to be the prince of."

He frowns, clenching his teeth tightly until the skin of his jaw feels as though it might rip itself free of his skull. Her words sink into him deeper than he cares to admit and her fury - while beautiful – causes his skin to itch painfully. He does not like this foreign emotion and casts it aside with a sharp jab of his finger to her chest, "I never _lie_. I only sought to guide him in our best interests – even yours, princess."

Sargon grabs him then, pulling him away from Farah harshly and nearly sending him tumbling to the ground. Anger drips from him, practically coating his skin as he speaks, "Do not touch her."

He pulls himself free from Sargon, ripping his arms away violently. He almost stumbles to the ground once more, though this time it is of his own doing. When he manages to right himself and stand tall upon his own two feet, he raises his hands up in a gesture of surrender. They both continue to scowl at one another despite themselves and he continues, "It is as I said: we could have ruled this kingdom – the three of us. All you needed to do was accept my guidance. Were the lives of the many less precious to you than the lives of a few screaming citizens?"

"All you sought was to guide me down a path of hatred and selfishness." Sargon counters, now standing ever so slightly before Farah. "To cloud my mind with vengeance until I was nothing more than your puppet. To convince me that you were my savior in a time of doubt! You were nothing more than a parasite who sought to feed off me when I had everything you could not!"

The demon's frown deepens, trying to ignore any grain of truth in his counterpart's words. They truly believed him to be a monster and even now only a monster wearing a most cunning disguise, but what he had claimed was true – he only sought to guide them towards glory. That had been taken from him though and the source of the reawakened light in Sargon still stood still at his side. Her presence yet another cut to him that he wished to hide beneath his irritation.

Farah has indeed ruined his plans. The princess had reached Sargon in ways he could not – spoke words far more tempting than his own. She spoke of kindness and understanding, a promise of a better life. She was the light found within his most literal darkness. Something he could never be while hiding in the shadows.

"You know nothing about me." He says, forcing his eyes away from the princess. "You see only that my course of action is not _your_ ideal. That makes me wrong, doesn't it?"

The royal couple moves to speak in unison, their stances already indicative that they mean to start another argument. He tenses, thinking up a dozen more of his own. Their morals have already begun to aggravate him and they have barely just begun – how is he to stand working with them?

"Wait, wait!" Azar is between them then, her breathing uneven as she attempts to catch her breath and regain her composure. She holds her arms out slightly at her sides, letting them hang low and raising one finger slightly towards the sky on each hand. She means for them to stop their bickering and he cannot help but narrow his eyes at her. She has no place in this argument. She has no place in their mission. "What are you three going on about?"

"Stay out of this." He snaps, folding his arms against his chest.

"If I am going to help you, I should know what is going on." She remarks, her own gaze locked on his before she turns to Sargon. Her dark hair twists about her body, emphasizing her movements most dramatically and giving her an air of authority in the moment. A commander over bickering children and once more he is forced to push away thoughts that seem to sting at his heart. "You say you have faced this enemy before? On an island?"

When the royal does not answer her, she continues, "And the Dahāka. Is it true? You have seen him?"

Sargon's own gaze falters and suddenly his eyes are upon the ground, seemingly locked upon a crack in the rooftop below their feet. It takes him a moment to speak and the demon can practically see the way he weighs the words in his mind, "I have killed him."

A sharp intake of breath is the first signal of her shock. The next is the way that her body tenses, her fingers straightening at her sides until it looks as though they may break from the strain she has put on the delicate muscles. They all know what he says is impossible – or nearly so. To have slain a dragon-king and son of Angra Mainyu is a feat only predicted for the end times. Had the memories not been his own, he would refuse to believe the claim himself – but he had been there, in his own way.

"He is telling you the truth." He says, his voice quiet but still tinged with more confidence than the memory probably warrants him to have. There is pride in him associated with that fateful battle and he still finds himself disheartened to know that Sargon denies himself the same feelings. "And this is not the same enemy. Not exactly."

A exhale of air rushes though Sargon's lips until his shoulders slump and the weight of experience has washed over him. He nods and looks towards his companion, the girl standing by patiently as she waits for him to fulfill her request. "There are many things you do not know, Azar. Things I did not share – things I kept hidden, even from my father."

The demon frowns at the mention of the former king. A small eruption of anger bursts from his heart and flows into his veins – hatred for the old man and delight that he is finally dead. His counterpart, meanwhile, reveres Sharaman as a beacon of good. It disgusts him and he snaps, "We do not have time for fairytales. Or have you forgotten that the city is under attack?"

"I have not forgotten." Sargon says, eyes narrowed in his direction. "The sun is setting and with it, the light is fading. We will make no progress stumbling about in the dark. And you need rest."

He snorts in reply, trying to ignore the way his body does indeed ache for rest, "I didn't know you cared."

"I do not."

"Touching."

A hand rests upon his arm then and he finds himself backing away from the contact, nearly willing himself to attack whoever has dared to be so bold. He roars and turns to find Azar's concerned gaze. She does not move, already used to his behavior from months prior – though he can still see the spark of fear within her eyes. "You are wounded. Pushing yourself forward will only do more harm than good."

He looks to her outstretched hand and snarls, "I do not need your medical insight, woman. I know my limits."

"I need none of my training to see that rest will help you, stubborn fool." She responds, her lips thin with frustration and eyes filled with misplaced compassion. "I offer you common sense. To charge forward now is not only a risk to your health, but will only aid the enemy."

He sighs, not unconvinced that her words hold some truth, but still wishing to move forward. The enemy will not defeat him – that much he knows – but this body is weak and he is tired. While he loathes admitting it, her words are correct. There is no need to make their upcoming battle any more difficult. He concedes, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension in his spine eases. Beside him, Azar offers a small smile, her eyes washing with visible relief that there is to be no further arguments on the subject. He sneers.

A quirk of her brow accompanies her next words, "Well, at least you have seen reason. Though your attitude could stand to be improved."

"Something you were already aware of, little spark." He shoots back, eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do not get so confident in yourself that you think I do not remember your actions. After all, is my weakness at this moment not your fault, traitor?"

Azar's brow furrows and she snorts, choking back mocking laughter as the fire in her eyes once more flares in annoyance, "Traitor? To be so, I would have to hold loyalty to you in the first place! Pray tell, how is your imprisonment my fault?"

He huffs, nose wrinkling in distaste as he turns sharply from her. It puts an almost effective end to the argument and the girl says nothing to provoke him further. Still, he can feel her self-assured expression upon his back, as though she has branded his neck with hot iron. He hates it – hates the thought of not having the last word, or at least something to strip away her confidence. He can think of nothing to do so though.

"Shall we plan our attack then?" He finally says, doing his best to ignore the look of amusement present upon the royal couple's faces. After a moment of silence, one in which he suspects they are doing their best to hold back their snickering, he continues with a pointed look towards Farah, "Or does your new found sense of morality have objections?"

That wipes the looks from their faces and Farah snaps, "The only objection I have is that you are still alive, demon."

Again, her words pierce at him. Like daggers, her words drag across him, intermingling with the churning of his stomach in a feeling he cannot describe. It is unpleasant – unwelcome. Like an insect beneath his skin, or an itch he cannot scratch. The unfamiliarity of it all is impossible to understand, but underneath it all he can feel the trickles of rage. That is a feeling he does understand. He welcomes it, letting it wash over him and consume all else until he is eroded to nothing more than its very essence.

"I do not care for what you want, girl." He finally replies, much too aware of the way his voice trembles. "I am alive – standing before you even. What you want is irrelevant."

Tension hangs between them.

Silence.

Sargon is the first to break, "I am tired of these pointless arguments. As much as it displeases us to admit, he is right. We must move forward – forge a plan and attack. We will get nowhere if we continue as we are now."

"I am so delighted to hear you agree." He remarks, voice dry with sarcasm. He folds his arms across his chest as if to punctuate the statement, not unlike a child. "Now, shall we find quarters for the night, or would you prefer to relay fairy tales in the freezing cold?"

He does not wait for their answers, instead choosing to move forward and vault off the rooftop. His stomach surges upwards to his throat as he falls, a familiar feeling that eases the tension from before. The rush of air removes the block of weight that sits upon his chest and shoulders until he feels fluid. He is glad to be free of their judgment – even for just a moment.

His feet impact the ground with a soft _thump_ and he takes a moment before standing, letting the way the dirt shifts under his knees and on the palms of his hands center him. Only when he is sure of himself once more does he glance back up at his companions. He ignores their quizzical gazes and stands, "Are you going to just stand there being useless, or would you like to join me down here?"

The biting tone of his words seems to snap them from their confusion and replace their strange apprehension with much more familiar exasperation. After exchanging glances with one another, Sargon follows, mimicking his own decent.

"We will head towards the harbor." Sargon states, lifting his arm to point in the general direction of their destination. "It is close enough to the palace that we can make headway tomorrow morning."

He frowns, the very idea of being so near the water making his skin crawl, "Why is it I feel that you have decided this only to spite me?"

A huff of air resembling something of laughter rushes through his counterpart's lips. It is short, almost enough that he barely hears it entirely, but instead it floods him until his cheeks burn bright. He scowls, hoping that his expression is more than enough to express his displeasure at being the butt of Sargon's little joke.

"My decision," Sargon says, helping Farah to her feet as she joins them on the streets, "is based solely on strategy. Should our enemy come looking for us there, they will have only one direction in which to attack."

"And we will have only one direction in which to escape." He replied, trying not to think too much on the idea of the vast, open waters at his back as he sleeps. His skin crawls and for a moment, he mistakes the feeling for insects upon his skin. It is only when the brush of his hand along his skin does nothing that he is forced to admit the unwelcome truth of his fear. It does nothing to improve his quickly souring mood.

"He has a point." Azar says, coming to stand at his side. The bandage on her hand has come loose. The wound caused by his infected hand lays exposed and she carefully brings her fingers up to nurse the still tender flesh. Her brow furrows and she hums with discomfort before continuing, "If we back ourselves against a wall, we only trap ourselves."

"He means for us to swim." Farah chimes in, once more the visage of reason. "Should it come to it, we can still escape into the water. Perhaps by ship if any remain."

Another wave of discomfort falls upon his body, weighing down his shoulders as he thinks of the black water beneath him – an endless void. He finds that the water (cold and dark as it is) remains only one concern. Rather he finds himself sickened by the idea of what being dragged down might entail: darkness and silence, escape only just out of reach. He finds his chest constricting at the thought of it and a bitterness rising to his mouth. He feels uncharacteristically vulnerable and it is only when he brings a clawed hand to his scalp, tangling his blackened fingers within the white strands, that he is once more able to gain some semblance of composure.

"Fine." He snaps, squeezing his eyes briefly closed before shaking himself free of the strange feelings entrapping him. "You are set on the idea. Should we be killed, it shall be your mistake alone."

It is only when he looks up that he realizes they have once more been watching him. Again, they stand back – eyes filled with apprehension. Though he swears he also sees a flash of pity from them. His arm burns and he steps forward, snarling, "If you have something to say, then be my guest! I have no patience for your damned silence!"

Again, they break their gaze – turning away with awkward movements as if to convince him that he had only imagined the entire scene. Despite knowing otherwise, a wave still washes over him. It is cool and he can feel the fury in his veins falter slightly.

He is tired and the thought of sleep seems more appealing now than ever before. With a heavy sigh, he looks towards the path ahead, "Let us get this over with."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) "IRAN iv. MYTHS AND LEGENDS." Encyclopædia Iranica, Encyclopædia Iranica, 15 Dec. 2004, articles/iran-iv-myths-and-legends.  
_

 _ii) I've decided to bend some of the fiction of the game to more closely match the reality of Iranian Mythology and religion. Overall, I feel the reality of the myths only add to the fiction of the game and also serve to make their presence more grounded in the world of the game. Expect some shifts to the story in those regards!_


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter TWs: Panic attacks, PTSD, anxiety attacks._

* * *

Night had fallen some hours before, the pale moonlight sweeping across the sands and reflecting off the water. It contrasted sharply with the small fire they had started, which flickered and popped. If it had not been for the warmth so desperately needed (or the cover provided amongst the harbor's many ships), he thinks they might have smothered it long before the darkness had even come upon Babylon. It is a risk, after all, but a small one they are permitted to take.

Despite the pleasures of the fire's heat upon his flesh, he does not stay long, or at least not long enough to hear the end of Sargon's tale. He has no use for memories, especially not those marred by senseless nostalgia (perhaps not the right word, he later decides, but it suits his feelings just fine).

Being further from the water proves to be a bonus.

He can still see them from the watchtower he has made his resting place, sitting around the flames. Sargon's arms moving about as he recalls the tale of their adventures and at times he can hear them laugh at something unknown – he had been nearly done with their adventures in Azad when he had announced his plans to do something more useful than telling stories. He thinks they must be nearing the end of the tale entirely, or at least he hopes so - if only because its end would bring about some peace and quiet.

It is a thing of beauty, he supposes. For things to be so calm and silent, as though the troubles about them have slipped away into the darkness, consumed within it until daybreak. It feels strange and safe, so very much unlike everything from the previous day. So much unlike the nights before, in which he had been the one consumed within the darkness and his dreams plagued by nightmares. He feels burning in his throat at the very thought and he swears for just a moment that the markings on his arm glow brighter.

He runs his fingers along the marks, the heat of the infected flesh soothing his cold fingertips. He has missed this. The feeling of being alive, no longer suffocating within the mind of his counterpart, is welcomed and needed. A small bit of tension that can be released upon his already twisting stomach. He plans to enjoy it.

"Something on your mind?"

The voice startles him, the sudden break in concentration making his heart stop. He is quick to act though, not letting being taken by surprise make him freeze up. Instead he grabs onto the sword at his side and turns to face the intruder. To his annoyance, the source of his startled mind is none other than Azar. She takes a minute to consider his sword, which rests only a hair's breadth from the tip of her nose.

"Stop being so dramatic." She says, using one hand to push the weapon from her face. After a moment more of watching him, in which his own heart continues to beat rapidly within his chest, she hauls herself upwards from the ladder and onto the small platform.

"Only if you stop sneaking up on me." He mutters, setting his weapon on the ground next to him (closer this time, just in case). "What are you doing here?"

She looks around, taking in the sights only visible from the new height she has been granted, before answering, "Sargon wanted to check on you."

He snorts, crossing his arms to signal his annoyance at the very notion.

"I thought you might appreciate if it were someone else." She adds, taking a seat nearby. It takes only a moment for her to settle and he realizes she has no intentions of leaving quickly. He frowns. "Or not."

They sit in silence for some time – he has hopes that it will convince her to leave him, but after several long minutes pass he is forced to admit defeat. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself upward, straightening his back against the beam behind him. When he is settled, he turns his attention back to his guest and says, "Out with it."

The sea answers him, the water rising and falling onto the shore with a rhythm that should ease the tension in his body, but instead only gives him more reason to be on edge. He clenches his hand closed, his fingers curling around the fabric of his clothes. He wishes to be free of this place and with every passing second, every brief sound, he can feel his mind twisting tighter and his throat fill with the sour taste of discomfort. Nearby, the girl watches.

"I have questions," she says, voice quiet and eyes soft, "about Sargon's tale."

His throat tightens, the breath in his chest feeling as though it will choke him. The memories are unpleasant and still so fresh in his mind, almost as if they had happened to him not a month before. For two long years he had been dead, had experienced nothing and knew nothing, but still it eats away at him like a parasite. The sheer idea of nothingness gorging itself on his soul until he fears that he will be consumed and nothing will be left. He wants nothing more than to forget these things, or at least to make Sargon pay for his transgressions.

"Then ask Sargon." He snaps, eyeing her with suspicion. A small part of him worries that she can sense his fear, or that she will pray on his weakness. "After all, I am a demon not to be trusted."

She sighs, it is a heavy thing that makes her shoulders slump. Her hair moves across her face in the breeze, the dark locks appearing black in the night, and she brushes her hand across her face. As she does so, she answers, "I would like to hear your side."

He frowns; relaxing his shoulders slightly, he says, "My side is his side."

"I believe you have your own story to tell." She replies, her fingers beginning to trace the wood beneath them gently. He watches the movement with half-interest, using it more as a distraction to keep from meeting her gaze. "I suspect what you tell me will be only filled with half truths, but your story will no more be lies than Sargon's own. You both believe your side to be the truth – so perhaps that truth lies somewhere in the middle of both tales."

"Are you always so insufferably objective?" He mutters, the glow of his arm flaring up once more. It catches her attention and she watches the light dance around the timbers surrounding them. Her eyes are caught in it and he briefly thinks they might be fire themselves. "Hearing my side will change nothing. I am still the enemy."

"That is true, but you are also an ally. Perhaps it is as they say: 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.'" She sounds confident in her words, as though their common goal ensures his compliance. If there is any uncertainty in her beliefs, he cannot see it behind the haze of light that floods her face. "If we are to defeat this Empress, we must at least try to understand each other."

He scowls, a hard line splitting his face as he lets her words sink in, "You really are insufferable."

"The bramble to the pomegranate." She laughs, crossing her arms across her chest cheekily. The sound rises above the sounds of the water beneath them momentarily, but eventually it vanishes just as quickly as it came. There is a pride in her, one that lifts her shoulders and straightens her back. It is something that makes her words more irksome.

He huffs, more dissatisfied with her presence than before, "Repeating proverbs from a child's bedtime story proves nothing. If anything, it only serves to strengthen the point I made."

Satisfied that she might take his tone as her signal to leave, he turns away. Forcing his body around until he is able to look out to the sea. He takes the sight in for a short moment before squeezing his eyes closed. His heart pounds as he waits, willing the seconds to move faster so that he might return to his previous position. It does not take him long to realize that she still will not leave, that none of his word, or his biting tone have convinced her to return to the sides of her precious royals. He feels that his stomach may drop, the sounds of the water not far enough from where he sits sounding closer than ever before. His throat aches then, as he thinks of waves crashing upon the shore, or the pressure in his lungs as water fills them.

"Merikh."

Her voice sends a burst through him, like flames building up inside of pot. He cracks, the shards moving in all directions until the parts left are shaking where he sits. He feels as though his heart may spill from his mouth when he speaks, "Do not call me that."

"It is your name."

"I have no name."

She rests a hand upon his shoulder and he wishes that he could snarl – send her reeling back from him until her skin was free of him. He finds that he cannot will the sound through the constriction of his lungs though. Instead, her grasp pulls on him, willing him to turn away from the sights before him and he follows, the dangers suddenly falling to his back and freeing him once more. It does not put his concerns fully to rest, but the air in his lungs ebbs and flows easier than those moments before. He settles himself again and she hums, clicking her tongue lightly, "You are afraid of water."

"I fear nothing." The reply is unconvincing – marred by not only the biting tone of his voice, but also the way his shoulders have slumped and the stiffness of his spine eased. The steadiness of her eyes upon him makes an unwelcome itch crawl through his skin and he continues, "Clearly you have more to say about the matter. Out with it."

Her fingertips squeeze themselves into his flesh soothingly, her touch seeming to ground him more than ignoring what lies behind him has. The incident has once more softened her edges and filled her eyes with knowledge. He forgets for a moment that they are not sitting in her home – thinks it impossible someone could remain as she does when their very world has begun to be torn apart (he tries not to think of how the citizens of Babylon have proven him wrong before). She says, "If you fear that I will find your anxieties amusing, I do not; such things are not shameful. There is no sense in being so proud, just as there here is no sense in bringing about harm to yourself."

He laughs; bitter and exhausted, but still offers the amusement to her, "Yet you stayed."

"And I did not think my presence so unwelcome that you would drive yourself into a panic rather than make conversation." She replies, her hand moving from his shoulder and her fingers skimming across the flesh of his arm before finding rest on her own knee. She holds herself with self-assurance, though it does little to hide the tinge of worry that creeps into her voice as she speaks, "It happened before. Earlier today, yes? When Sargon first suggested we find shelter in the harbor district."

"How perceptive of you."

Unexpectedly, she laughs. A soft thing, almost hollow – empty. Yet inside of it he hears a spark of something else. It is something he finds he does not quite understand. Like a thought stuck at the tip of his tongue, but unable to form fully it sits and he mutters with irritation. Azar in turn quiets herself, though a smile now rests just as softly as her laughter upon her lips, "Tell me your story."

When he does not answer, she adds, "Please."

His boots scrape the wooden floor beneath them as he gathers himself up, pulling his back straighter and chasing away the knots in his stomach. Azar keeps her gaze locked on him, her eyes wide with anticipation and igniting with curiosity. It takes him some time to settle, racking his brain for the words he wishes to speak. He thinks so little of the tale and he has no desire to impress the girl with fancy speeches about the movement of time, but still he finds his tongue tied. After all, where should he begin the story of his birth? Should he tell such a private tale at all?

"Fine then," he mutters with a sigh, defeated in his internal struggle as the girl beams with eagerness, "but do not interrupt me with inane questions. Understood?"

She nods and brings her fingers to her lips, twisting them as though she has just secured a lock. His lips twitch with amusement before falling again into an unpleasant frown.

"Know, first, that what Sargon tells you of my birth is untrue." He begins slowly, as if walking upon water that might swallow him up should he not tread carefully. "I was not spun from the ether; I was not conjured by the Vizier. Nor was I the creation of the Sands of Time – no, the Sands played only a role in awakening me fully; they rose me from a half-slumber.

"Think of it as something like your conscious: a voice that whispers in your ear as you move about you life. The voice is always present, but never corporal." He pauses and stares down at his infected appendage, clasping his fingers closed until his nails dig into the blackened palms. "I have been alive since the moment his lungs took our first breath – and perhaps longer still. So no, I am not a creation of the Sands."

Azar shifts, her knees shuffling along the floor in a manner that reveals her desires to bombard him with her questions. Amazingly, she does not interrupt and he can practically see the way she swallows the questions back, the still present hardness of eyes softening slightly as she takes in the beginning of his story.

He raises a finger to his lips to remind her of the promise she made. Her lips form a thin line in response, the annoyance of being reminded becoming immediately obvious. He laughs at her expense.

The night continues much the same and it is not until the end of his account that he realizes how silly the whole ordeal feels – and worse still how familiar. Still, despite his discomfort with how this present has paralleled Sargon's past there is a strange relief that moves through him. As though his muscles have unwound and his blood can move more freely through his veins – he enjoys the feeling of no longer being confined within the shadows. As though the story being within her mind has freed him from the clawing hands within the darkness for a short time. He does not feel the fear of being engulfed and forgotten within once more.

It is not until the sun begins to rise that he realizes his tale has gone on for too long – that he has become wound up in the tale and forgotten the beauty in conciseness. Azar does not seem to mind though and she listens with rapt attention (though he knows that she has weighed his words against Sargon's from the beginning, he still finds himself relieved that she has decided to continue to listen at all).

He finishes just as the moon falls over the horizon.

"I awoke in the desert, my memory clouded but intact. Nearly overtaken by the darkness as I was, the sheer weight that the void of death had permitted has nearly overtaken me." He says, concluding the tale with what little he remembers through the haze of his rebirth. "While in my mind, the experience was like waking up from restless sleep – as though the experience had not happened at all – in my subconscious I was aware of every passing second of the passing years. A torture that was permitted because I had the desire to continue living, to survive when the Sands that permitted me to awaken had been ripped from the only body I had ever known."

"You were afraid of death?" Azar finally questions, her voice startling him after her several hours of silence.

He glares, furrowing his brow in a manner that speaks to his annoyance, and says, "I thought I told you not to ask questions."

"You said not to ask questions while you told your story and I did not." She counters, rolling back her shoulders and stretching like a satisfied cat. "Now that we have reached the point where I enter, it does little use to continue on. After all, I am aware of the events that took fold."

He frowns and she smirks. Raising his hands in defeat, he admits, "I suppose, if you are so eager for me to be done! Fine. Ask away."

Questions begin to pour from the girl's mouth, spilling onto the floor beneath them so quickly he thinks that they may begin to fill up the earth like a sea. It makes his head spin and he does the best he can to answer – though he is forced to ask her to slow down more than once. He does his best to answer with simple yeses and noes, but finds more than once he is caught up in another bout of storytelling. Despite his annoyance, the girl seems to appreciate his efforts.

Her last question is what startles him the most, breaking him free from his more agreeable attitude in much the same way that it does her own (he swears her eyes had not been so dull and her body so stiff before). It is like a bucket of ice water being poured across his flesh, soaking him until his lungs are tight and skin aches for relief. Sudden, but in this case, the question is not without justification.

"Will you kill us when we are done?"

He clenches his teeth, tight so that they might shatter in his skull. There is no point in lying to the girl, no point in pretending to be what he is not when she so clearly knows the truth. This is his purpose – his revenge. He shall take it as he sees fit when they are done.

"Yes."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _i) P. M. Michèle Daviau, The world of the Aramaeans, Sheffield Academic Press UK 2001, pp.65-9_

 _"The bramble sent to the pomegranate as follows:_  
 _The bramble to the pomegranate:_  
 _'What good is the abundance of your thorns_  
 _to one who touches your fruit?'_  
 _The pomegranate replied_  
 _and said to the bramble:_  
 _'You, all of you are thorns_  
 _for him who touches you!'"_

 _"The pot calling the kettle black" equivalent._


End file.
